RALDINE 

ONNER 


He  gathered  her  in  his  arms,  and  bending  low  carried 
her  back  into  the  darkened  cavern. 

— See  page  4.16 


THE 
EMIGRANT    TRAIL 


BY 


GERALDINE    BONNER 

:   •  II 


NEW     YORK 

DUFFIELD     &     COMPANY 
1910 


COPYRIGHT,  1910,  BY 


April,- 


THE  TROW  PRESS,  NEW  YORK 


CONTENTS 


PART    I 

PAGE 

THE  PRAIRIE  .  i 


PART    II 
THE  RIVER 97 

PART    III 
THE  MOUNTAINS 191 

PART    IV 
THE  DESERT 325 

PART   V 
THE  PROMISED  LAND 429 


938163 


PART   I 
The  Prairie 


CHAPTER    I 

IT  had  rained  steadily  for  three  days,  the 
straight,  relentless  rain  of  early  May  on  the  Mis 
souri  frontier.  The  emigrants,  whose  hooded 
wagons  had  been  rolling  into  Independence  for  the 
past  month  and  whose  tents  gleamed  through  the 
spring  foliage,  lounged  about  in  one  another's 
camps  cursing  the  weather  and  swapping  bits  of 
useful  information. 

The  year  was  1848  and  the  great  California  emi 
gration  was  still  twelve  months  distant.  The 
flakes  of  gold  had  already  been  found  in  the  race  of 
Sutter's  mill,  and  the  thin  scattering  of  men,  which 
made  the  population  of  California,  had  left  their 
plows  in  the  furrow  and  their  ships  in  the  cove  and 
gone  to  the  yellow  rivers  that  drain  the  Sierra's 
mighty  flanks.  But  the  rest  of  the  world  knew 
nothing  of  this  yet.  They  were  not  to  hear  till 
November  when  a  ship  brought  the  news  to  New 
York,  and  from  city  and  town,  from  village  and 
cottage,  a  march  of  men  would  turn  their  faces  to 
the  setting  sun  and  start  for  the  land  of  gold. 

Those  now  bound  for  California  knew  it  only  as 
the  recently  acquired  strip  of  territory  that  lay 
along  the  continent's  Western  rim,  a  place  of  per- 

3 


The  Emigrant  Trail 

petual  sunshine,  where  everybody  had  a  chance  and 
there  was  no  malaria.  That  was  what  they  told 
each  other  as  they  lay  under  the  wagons  or  sat  on 
saddles  in  the  wet  tents.  The  story  of  old  Rouba- 
doux,  the  French  fur  trader  from  St.  Joseph,  cir 
culated  cheeringly  from  mouth  to  mouth — a  man 
in  Monterey  had  had  chills  and  people  came  from 
miles  around  to  see  him  shake,  so  novel  was  the 
spectacle.  That  was  the  country  for  the  men  and 
women  of  the  Mississippi  Valley,  who  shook  half 
the  year  and  spent  the  other  half  getting  over  it. 

The  call  of  the  West  was  a  siren  song  in  the  ears 
of  these  waiting  companies.  The  blood  of  pioneers 
urged  them  forward.  Their  forefathers  had  moved 
from  the  old  countries  across  the  seas,  from  the 
elm-shaded  towns  of  New  England,  from  the  un 
kempt  villages  that  advanced  into  the  virgin  lands 
by  the  Great  Lakes,  from  the  peace  and  plenty  of 
the  splendid  South.  Year  by  year  they  had  pushed 
the  frontier  westward,  pricked  onward  by  a  cease 
less  unrest,  "  the  old  land  hunger  "  that  never  was 
appeased.  The  forests  rang  to  the  stroke  of  their 
ax,  the  slow,  untroubled  rivers  of  the  wilderness 
parted  to  the  plowing  wheels  of  their  unwieldy 
wagons,  their  voices  went  before  them  into  places 
where  Nature  had  kept  unbroken  her  vast  and  pon 
dering  silence.  The  distant  country  by  the  Pacific 
was  still  to  explore  and  they  yoked  their  oxen,  and 
with  a  woman  and  a  child  on  the  seat  started  out 
again,  responsive  to  the  cry  of  "  Westward,  Ho !  " 

As  many  were  bound  for  Oregon  as  for  Cali- 
4 


The  Prairie 

fornia.  Marcus  Whitman  and  the  missionaries  had 
brought  alluring  stories  of  that  great  domain  once 
held  so  cheaply  the  country  almost  lost  it.  It  was 
said  to  be  of  a  wonderful  fertility  and  league-long 
stretches  of  idle  land  awaited  the  settler.  The 
roads  ran  together  more  than  half  the  way,  part 
ing  at  Green  River,  where  the  Oregon  trail  turned 
to  Fort  Hall  and  the  California  dipped  southward 
and  wound,  a  white  and  spindling  thread,  across 
what  men  then  called  "  The  Great  American  Des 
ert."  Two  days'  journey  from  Independence  this 
road  branched  from  the  Santa  Fe  Trail  and  bent 
northward  across  the  prairie.  A  signboard  on  a 
stake  pointed  the  way  and  bore  the  legend,  "  Road 
to  Oregon."  It  was  the  starting  point  of  one  of 
the  historic  highways  of  the  world.  The  Indians 
called  it  "  The  Great  Medicine  Way  of  the  Pale 
face." 

Checked  in  the  act  of  what  they  called  "  jumping 
off  "  the  emigrants  wore  away  the  days  in  telling 
stories  of  the  rival  countries,  and  in  separating 
from  old  companies  and  joining  new  ones.  It  was 
an  important  matter,  this  of  traveling  partnerships. 
A  trip  of  two  thousand  miles  on  unknown  roads 
beset  with  dangers  was  not  to  be  lightly  under- 
taken.  Small  parties,  frightened  on  the  edge  of 
the  enterprise,  joined  themselves  to  stronger  ones. 
The  mountain  men  and  trappers  delighted  to  aug 
ment  the  tremors  of  the  fearful,  and  round  the 
camp  fires  listening  groups  hung  on  the  words  of 
long-haired  men  clad  in  dirty  buckskins,  whose 

5 


The  Emigrant  Trail 

moccasined  feet  had  trod  the  trails  of  the  fur  trader 
and  his  red  brother. 

This  year  was  one  of  special  peril  for,  to  the 
accustomed  dangers  from  heat,  hunger,  and  In 
dians,  was  added  a  new  one — the  Mormons.  They 
were  still  moving  westward  in  their  emigration 
from  Nauvoo  to  the  new  Zion  beside  the  Great 
Salt  Lake.  It  was  a  time  and  a  place  to  hear  the 
black  side  of  Mormonism.  A  Missourian  hated  a 
Latter  Day  Saint  as  a  Puritan  hated  a  Papist. 
Hawn's  mill  was  fresh  in  the  minds  of  the  fron 
tiersmen,  and  the  murder  of  Joseph  Smith  was  ac 
counted  a  righteous  act.  The  emigrant  had  many 
warnings  to  lay  to  heart — against  Indian  surprises 
in  the  mountains,  against  mosquitoes  on  the  plains, 
against  quicksands  in  the  Platte,  against  stampedes 
among  the  cattle,  against  alkaline  springs  and  the 
desert's  parching  heats.  And  quite  as  important  as 
any  of  these  was  that  against  the  Latter  Day  Saint 
with  the  Book  of  Mormon  in  his  saddlebag  and  his 
long-barreled  rifle  across  the  pommel. 

So  they  waited,  full  of  ill  words  and  impatience, 
while  the  rain  fell.  Independence,  the  focusing 
point  of  the  frontier  life,  housing  unexpected  hun 
dreds,  dripped  from  all  its  gables  and  swam  in 
mud.  And  in  the  camps  that  spread  through  the 
fresh,  wet  woods  and  the  oozy  uplands,  still  other 
hundreds  cowered  under  soaked  tent  walls  and  in 
damp  wagon  boxes,  listening  to  the  rush  of  the 
continuous  showers. 


CHAPTER  II 

ON  the  afternoon  of  the  fourth  day  the  clouds 
lifted.  A  band  of  yellow  light  broke  out  along  the 
horizon,  and  at  the  crossings  of  the  town  and  in 
the  rutted  country  roads  men  and  women  stood 
staring  at  it  with  its  light  and  their  own  hope 
brightening  their  faces. 

David  Crystal,  as  he  walked  through  the  woods, 
saw  it  behind  a  veining  of  black  branches.  Though 
a  camper  and  impatient  to  be  off  like  the  rest,  he  did 
not  feel  the  elation  that  shone  on  their  watching 
faces.  His  was  held  in  a  somber  abstraction.  Just 
behind  him,  in  an  opening  under  the  straight,  white 
blossoming  of  dogwood  trees,  was  a  new-made 
grave.  The  raw  earth  about  it  showed  the  prints 
of  his  feet,  for  he  had  been  standing  by  it  thinking 
of  the  man  who  lay  beneath. 

Four  days  before  his  friend,  Joe  Linley,  had  died 
of  cholera.  Three  of  them — Joe,  himself,  and 
George  Leffingwell,  Joe's  cousin — had  been  in 
camp  less  than  a  week  when  it  had  happened.  Un 
til  then  their  life  had  been  like  a  picnic  there  in  the 
clearing  by  the  roadside,  with  the  thrill  of  the  great 
journey  stirring  in  their  blood.  And  then  Joe  had 
been  smitten  with  such  suddenness,  such  awful 
suddenness!  He  had  been  talking  to  them  when 
David  had  seen  a  suspension  of  something,  a  stop- 

7 


The  Emigrant  Trail 

page  of  a  vital  inner  spring,  and  with  it  a  white 
ness  had  passed  across  his  face  like  a  running  tide. 
The  awe  of  that  moment,  the  hush  when  it  seemed 
to  David  the  liberated  spirit  had  paused  beside  him 
in  its  outward  flight,  was  with  him  now  as  he 
walked  through  the  rustling  freshness  of  the  wood. 
The  rain  had  begun  to  lessen,  its  downfall  thin 
ning  into  a  soft  patter  among  the  leaves.  The 
young  man  took  off  his  hat  and  let  the  damp  air 
play  over  his  hair.  It  was  thick  hair,  black  and 
straight,  already  longer  than  city  fashions  dictated, 
and  a  first  stubble  of  black  beard  was  hiding  the 
lines  of  a  chin  perhaps  a  trifle  too  sensitive  and 
pointed.  Romantic  good  looks  and  an  almost 
poetic  refinement  were  the  characteristics  of  the 
face,  an  unusual  type  for  the  frontier.  With 
thoughtful  gray  eyes  set  deep  under  a  jut  of  brows 
and  a  nose  as  finely  cut  as  a  woman's,  it  was  of  a 
type  that,  in  more  sophisticated  localities,  men 
would  have  said  had  risen  to  meet  the  Byronic  ideal 
of  which  the  world  was  just  then  enamored.  But 
there  was  nothing  Byronic  or  self-conscious  about 
David  Crystal.  He  had  been  born  and  bred  in 
what  was  then  the  Far  West,  and  that  he  should 
read  poetry  and  regard  life  as  an  undertaking  that 
a  man  must  face  with  all  honor  and  resoluteness 
was  not  so  surprising  for  the  time  and  place.  The 
West,  with  its  loneliness,  its  questioning  silences, 
its  solemn  sweep  of  prairie  and  roll  of  slow,  majes 
tic  rivers,  held  spiritual  communion  with  those  of 
its  young  men  who  had  eyes  to  see  and  ears  to  hear. 

8 


The  Prairie 

The  trees  grew  thinner  and  he  saw  the  sky  pure 
as  amber  beneath  the  storm  pall.  The  light  from 
it  twinkled  over  wet  twigs  and  glazed  the  water  in 
the  crumplings  of  new  leaves.  Across  the  glow  the 
last  raindrops  fell  in  slanting  dashes.  David's 
spirits  rose.  The  weather  was  clearing  and  they 
could  start — start  on  the  trail,  the  long  trail,  the 
Emigrant  Trail,  two  thousand  miles  to  California! 

He  was  close  to  the  camp.  Through  the  branches 
he  saw  the  filmy,  diffused  blueness  of  smoke  and 
smelled  the  sharp  odor  of  burning  wood.  He 
quickened  his  pace  and  was  about  to  give  forth  a 
cheerful  hail  when  he  heard  a  sound  that  made  him 
stop,  listen  with  fixed  eye,  and  then  advance  cau 
tiously,  sending  a  questing  glance  through  the 
screen  of  leaves.  The  sound  was  a  woman's  voice 
detached  in  clear  sweetness  from  the  deeper  tones 
of  men. 

There  was  no  especial  novelty  in  this.  Their 
camp  was  just  off  the  road  and  the  emigrant  wom 
en  were  wont  to  pause  there  and  pass  the  time 
of  day.  Most  of  them  were  the  lean  and  leathern- 
skinned  mates  of  the  frontiersmen,  shapeless  and 
haggard  as  if  toil  had  drawn  from  their  bodies  all 
the  softness  of  feminine  beauty,  as  malaria  had 
sucked  from  their  skins  freshness  and  color.  But 
there  were  young,  pretty  ones,  too,  who  often 
strolled  by,  looking  sideways  from  the  shelter  uf 
jealous  sunbonnets. 

This  voice  was  not  like  theirs.  It  had  a  quality 
David  had  only  heard  a  few  times  in  his  life — cul- 

9 


The  Emigrant  Trail 

tivation.  Experience  would  have  characterized  it 
as  "  a  lady  voice."  David,  with  none,  thought  it  an 
angel's.  Very  shy,  very  curious,  he  came  out  from 
the  trees  ready  at  once  and  forever  to  worship  any 
one  who  could  set  their  words  to  such  dulcet  ca 
dences. 

The  clearing,  green  as  an  emerald  and  shining 
with  rain,  showed  the  hood  of  the  wagon  and  the 
new,  clean  tent,  white  as  sails  on  a  summer  sea, 
against  the  trees'  young  bloom.  In  the  middle  the 
fire  burned  and  beside  it  stood  Leff,  a  skillet  in  his 
hand.  He  was  a  curly-headed,  powerful  country 
lad,  twenty-four  years  old,  who,  two  months  be 
fore,  had  come  from  an  Illinois  farm  to  join  the 
expedition.  The  frontier  was  to  him  a  place  of 
varied  diversion,  Independence  a  stimulating  cen 
ter.  So  diffident  that  the  bashful  David  seemed  by 
contrast  a  man  of  cultured  ease,  he  was  now  blush 
ing  till  the  back  of  his  neck  was  red. 

On  the  other  side  of  the  fire  a  lady  and  gentle 
man  stood  arm  in  arm  under  an  umbrella.  The 
two  faces,  bent  upon  Leff  with  grave  attention, 
were  alike,  not  in  feature,  but  in  the  subtly  similar 
play  of  expression  that  speaks  the  blood  tie.  A 
father  and  daughter,  David  thought.  Against  the 
rough  background  of  the  camp,  with  its  litter  at 
their  feet,  they  had  an  air  of  being  applied  upon  an 
alien  surface,  of  not  belonging  to  the  picture,  but 
standing  out  from  it  in  sharp  and  incongruous  con 
trast. 

The  gentleman  was  thin  and  tall,  fifty  or  there- 
10 


The  Prairie 

abouts,  very  pale,  especially  to  one  accustomed  to 
the  tanned  skins  of  the  farm  and  the  country  town. 
His  face  held  so  frank  a  kindliness,  especially  the 
eyes  which  looked  tired  and  a  little  sad,  that  David 
felt  its' expression  like  a  friendly  greeting  or  a  strong 
handclasp. 

The  lady  did  not  have  this,  perhaps  because  she 
was. a  great  deal  younger.  She  was  yet  in  the  bud, 
far  from  the  tempering  touch  of  experience,  still 
in  the  state  of  looking  forward  and  anticipating 
things.  She  was  dark,  of  medium  height,  and  in 
clined  to  be  plump.  Many  delightful  curves  went 
to  her  making,  and  her  waist  tapered  elegantly,  as 
was  the  fashion  of  the  time.  Thinking  it  over 
afterwards,  the  young  man  decided  that  she  did 
not  belong  in  the  picture  with  a  prairie  schooner 
and  camp  kettles,  because  she  looked  so  like  an 
illustration  in  a  book  of  beauty.  And  David  knew 
something  of  these  matters,  for  had  he  not  been 
twice  to  St.  Louis  and  there  seen  the  glories  of  the 
earth  and  the  kingdoms  thereof? 

But  life  in  camp  outside  Independence  had  evi 
dently  blunted  his  perceptions.  The  small  waist,  a 
round,  bare  throat  rising  from  a  narrow  band  of 
lace,  and  a  flat,  yellow  straw  hat  were  the  young 
woman's  only  points  of  resemblance  to  the  beauty- 
book  heroines.  She  was  not  in  the  least  beautiful, 
only  fresh  and  healthy,  the  flat  straw  hat  shading 
a  girlish  face,  smooth  and  firmly  modeled  as  a  ripe 
fruit.  Her  skin  was  a  glossy  brown,  softened  with 
a  peach's  bloom,  warming  through  deepening 

II 


The  Emigrant  Trail 

shades  of  rose  to  lips  that  were  so  deeply  colored 
no  one  noticed  how  firmly  they  could  come  to 
gether,  how  their  curving,  crimson  edges  could 
shut  tight,  straighten  out,  and  become  a  line  of 
forceful  suggestions,  of  doggedness,  maybe — who 
knows? — perhaps  of  obstinacy.  It  was  her  physi 
cal  exuberance,  her  downy  glow,  that  made  David 
think  her  good  looking;  her  serene,  brunette  rich 
ness,  with  its  high  lights  of  coral  and  scarlet,  that 
made  her  radiate  an  aura  of  warmth,  startling  in 
that  woodland  clearing,  as  the  luster  of  a  firefly 
in  a  garden's  glooming  dusk. 

She  stopped  speaking  as  he  emerged  from  the 
trees,  and  LefFs  stammering  answer  held  her  in  a 
riveted  stare  of  attention.  Then  she  looked  up  and 
saw  David. 

"  Oh,"  she  said,  and  transferred  the  stare  to  him. 
"Is  this  he?" 

Leff  was  obviously  relieved : 

"  Oh,  David,  I  ain't  known  what  to  say  to  this 
lady  and  her  father.  They  think  some  of  joining 
us.  They've  been  waiting  for  quite  a  spell  to  see 
you.  They're  goin'  to  California,  too." 

The  gentleman  lifted  his  hat.  Now  that  he 
smiled  his  face  was  even  kindlier,  and  he,  too,  had 
a  pleasant,  mellowed  utterance  that  linked  him  with 
the  world  of  superior  quality  of  which  David  had 
had  those  two  glimpses. 

"  I  am  Dr.  Gillespie,"  he  said,  "  and  this  is  my 
daughter  Susan." 

David  bowed  awkwardly,  a  bow  that  was  sup- 
12 


The  Prairie 

posed  to  include  father  and  daughter.  He  did  not 
know  whether  this  was  a  regular  introduction,  and 
even  if  it  had  been  he  would  not  have  known  what 
to  do.  The  young  woman  made  no  attempt  to  re 
turn  the  salutation,  not  that  she  was  rude,  but  she 
had  the  air  of  regarding  it  as  a  frivolous  interrup 
tion  to  weighty  matters.  She  fixed  David  with 
eyes,  small,  black,  and  bright  as  a  squirrel's,  so 
devoid  of  any  recognition  that  he  was  a  member  of 
the  rival  sex — or,  in  fact,  of  the  human  family — 
that  his  self-consciousness  sunk  down  abashed  as  if 
before  reproof. 

"  My  father  and  I  are  going  to  California  and 
the  train  we  were  going  with  has  gone  on.  We've 
come  from  Rochester,  New  York,  and  everywhere 
we've  been  delayed  and  kept  back.  Even  that  boat 
up  from  St.  Louis  was  five  days  behind  time.  It's 
been  nothing  but  disappointments  and  delays  since 
we  left  home.  And  when  we  got  here  the  people 
we  were  going  with — a  big  train  from  Northern 
New  York — had  gone  on  and  left  us." 

She  said  all  this  rapidly,  poured  it  out  as  if  she 
were  so  full  of  the  injury  and  annoyance  of  it,  that 
she  had  to  ease  her  indignation  by  letting  it  run 
over  into  the  first  pair  of  sympathetic  ears.  David's 
were  a  very  good  pair.  Any  woman  with  a  tale  of 
trouble  would  have  found  him  a  champion.  How 
much  more  a  fresh-faced  young  creature  with  a 
melodious  voice  and  anxious  eyes. 

"  A  good  many  trains  have  gone  on,"  he  said. 
And  then,  by  way  of  consolation  for  her  manner 

13 


The  Emigrant  Trail 

demanded,  that,  "  But  they'll  be  stalled  at  the  fords 
with  this  rain.  They'll  have  to  wait  till  the  rivers 
fall.  All  the  men  who  know  say  that." 

"  So  we've  heard,"  said  the  father,  "  but  we 
hoped  that  we'd  catch  them  up.  Our  outfit  is  very 
light,  only  one  wagon,  and  our  driver  is  a  thor 
oughly  capable  and  experienced  man.  What  we 
want  are  some  companions  with  whom  we  can 
travel  till  we  overhaul  the  others.  I'd  start  alone, 
but  with  my  daughter 

She  cut  in  at  once,  giving  his  arm  a  little,  irri 
tated  shake : 

"  Of  course  you  couldn't  do  that."  Then  to  the 
young  men :  "  My  father's  been  sick  for  quite  a 
long  time,  all  last  winter.  It's  for  his  health 
we're  going  to  California,  and,  of  course,  he 
couldn't  start  without  some  other  men  in  the 
party.  Indians  might  attack  us,  and  at  the  ho 
tel  they  said  the  Mormons  were  scattered  all 
along  the  road  and  thought  nothing  of  shooting  a 
Gentile." 

Her  father  gave  the  fingers  crooked  on  his  arm 
a  little  squeeze  with  his  elbow.  It  was  evident  the 
pair  were  very  good  friends. 

'*  You'll  make  these  young  men  think  I'm  a  help 
less  invalid,  who'll  lie  in  the  wagon  all  day.  They 
won't  want  us  to  go  with  them." 

This  made  her  again  uneasy  and  let  loose  an 
other  flow  of  authoritative  words. 

"  No,  my  father  isn't  really  an  invalid.  He 
doesn't  have  to  lie  in  the  wagon.  He's  going  to 


The  Prairie 

ride  most  of  the  time.  He  and  I  expect  to  ride  all 
the  way,  and  the  old  man  who  goes  with  us  will 
drive  the  mules.  What's  been  really  bad  for  my 
father  was  living  in  that  dreadful  hotel  at  Inde 
pendence  with  everything  damp  and  uncomfortable. 
We  want  to  get  off  just  as  soon  as  we  can,  and  this 
gentleman,"  indicating  Leff,  "  says  you  want  to  go, 
too." 

:(  We'll  start  to-morrow  morning,  if  it's  clear." 

"Now,  father,"  giving  the  arm  she  held  a  re 
newed  clutch  and  sharper  shake,  "  there's  our 
chance.  We  must  go  with  them." 

The  father's  smile  would  have  shown  something 
of  deprecation,  or  even  apology,  if  it  had  not  been 
all  pride  and  tenderness. 

'  These  young  men  will  be  very  kind  if  they  per 
mit  us  to  join  them,"  was  what  his  lips  said.  His 
eyes  added :  "  This  is  a  spoiled  child,  but  even  so, 
there  is  no  other  like  her  in  the  world." 

The  young  men  sprang  at  the  suggestion.  The 
spring  was  internal,  of  the  spirit,  for  they  were  too 
overwhelmed  by  the  imminent  presence  of  beauty 
to  show  a  spark  of  spontaneity  on  the  outside. 
They  muttered  their  agreement,  kicked  the  ground, 
and  avoided  the  eyes  of  Miss  Gillespie. 

"  The  people  at  the  hotel,"  the  doctor  went  on, 
"  advised  us  to  join  one  of  the  ox  trains.  But  it 
seemed  such  a  slow  mode  of  progress.  They  don't 
make  much  more  than  fifteen  to  twenty  miles  a 
day." 

"  And  then,"  said  the  girl,  "  there  might  be  peo- 
15 


The  Emigrant  Trail 

pie  we  didn't  like  in  the  train  and  we'd  be  with 
them  all  the  time." 

It  is  not  probable  that  she  intended  to  suggest 
to  her  listeners  that  she  could  stand  them  as  travel 
ing  companions.  Whether  she  did  or  not  they 
scented  the  compliment,  looked  stupid,  and  hung 
their  heads,  silent  in  the  intoxication  of  this  first 
subtle  whiff  of  incense.  Even  Leff,  uncouth  and 
unlettered,  extracted  all  that  was  possible  from  the 
words,  and  felt  a  delicate  elation  at  the  thought 
that  so  fine  a  creature  could  endure  his  society. 

"  We  expect  to  go  a  great  deal  faster  than  the 
long  trains,"  she  continued.  "  We  have  no  oxen, 
only  six  mules  and  two  extra  horses  and  a  cow." 

Her  father  laughed  outright. 

"  Don't  let  my  daughter  frighten  you.  We've 
really  got  a  very  small  amount  of  baggage.  Our 
little  caravan  has  been  made  up  on  the  advice  of 
Dr.  Marcus  Whitman,  an  old  friend  of  mine.  Five 
years  ago  when  he  was  in  Washington  he  gave  me 
a  list  of  what  was  needed  for  the  journey  across 
the  plains.  I  suppose  he's  the  best  authority  on 
that  subject.  We  all  know  how  successfully  the 
Oregon  emigration  was  carried  through." 

David  was  glad  to  show  he  knew  something  of 
that.  A  boy  friend  of  his  had  gone  to  Oregon  with 
this,  the  first  large  body  of  emigrants  that  had  ven 
tured  on  the  great  enterprise.  Whitman  was  to 
him  a  national  hero,  his  ride  in  the  dead  of  wintei 
from  the  far  Northwest  to  Washington,  as  patrioti 
cally  inspiring  as  Paul  Revere's. 

16 


The  Prairie 

There  was  more  talk,  standing  round  the  fire, 
while  the  agreements  for  the  start  were  being  made. 
No  one  thought  the  arrangement  hasty,  for  it  was 
a  place  and  time  of  quick  decisions.  Men  starting 
on  the  emigrant  trail  were  not  for  wasting  time  on 
preliminaries.  Friendships  sprang  up  like  the  grass 
and  were  mown  down  like  it.  Standing  on  the 
edge  of  the  unknown  was  not  the  propitious  mo 
ment  for  caution  and  hesitation.  Only  the  bold 
dared  it  and  the  bold  took  each  other  without  ques 
tion,  reading  what  was  on  the  surface,  not  bother 
ing  about  what  might  be  hidden. 

It  was  agreed,  the  weather  being  fair,  that  they 
would  start  at  seven  the  next  morning,  Dr.  Gil- 
lespie's  party  joining  David's  at  the  camp.  With 
their  mules  and  horses  they  should  make  good  time 
and  within  a  month  overhaul  the  train  that  had  left 
the  Gillespies  behind. 

As  the  doctor  and  his  daughter  walked  away  the 
shyness  of  the  young  men  returned  upon  them  in  a 
heavy  backwash.  They  were  so  whelmed  by  it  that 
they  did  not  even  speak  to  one  another.  But  both 
glanced  with  cautious  stealth  at  the  receding  backs, 
the  doctor  in  front,  his  daughter  walking  daintily 
on  the  edge  of  grass  by  the  roadside,  holding  her 
skirts  away  from  the  wet  weeds. 

When  she  was  out  of  sight  Leff  said  with  an 
embarrassed  laugh: 

"  Well,  we  got  some  one  to  go  along  with  us 
now." 

David  did  not  laugh.  He  pondered  frowningly. 
17 


The  Emigrant  Trail 

He  was  the  elder  by  two  years  and  he  felt  his  re 
sponsibilities. 

"  They'll  do  all  right.  With  two  more  men  we'll 
make  a  strong  enough  train." 

Left  was  cook  that  night,  and  he  set  the  coffee 
on  and  began  cutting  the  bacon.  Occupied  in  this 
congenial  work,  the  joints  of  his  tongue  were  loos 
ened,  and  as  the  skillet  gave  forth  grease  and 
odors,  he  gave  forth  bits  of  information  gleaned 
from  the  earlier  part  of  the  interview : 

"  I  guess  they  got  a  first  rate  outfit.  The  old 
gentleman  said  they'd  been  getting  it  together  since 
last  autumn.  They  must  be  pretty  well  fixed." 

David  nodded.  Being  "  well  fixed "  or  being 
poor  did  not  count  on  the  edge  of  the  prairie.  They 
were  frivolous  outside  matters  that  had  weight  in 
cities.  Leff  went  on, 

"  He's  consumpted.  That's  why  he's  going.  He 
says  he  expects  to  be  cured  before  he  gets  to  Cali 
fornia." 

A  sudden  zephyr  irritated  the  tree  tops,  which 
bent  away  from  its  touch  and  scattered  moisture  on 
the  fire  and  the  frying  pan.  There  was  a  sputter 
and  sizzle  and  Leff  muttered  profanely  before  he 
took  up  the  dropped  thread : 

"  The  man  that  drives  the  mules,  he's  a  hired 
man  that  the  old  gentleman's  had  for  twenty  years. 
He  was  out  on  the  frontier  once  and  knows  all 
about  it,  and  there  ain't  nothing  he  can't  drive  "• 
turning  of  the  bacon  here,  Leff  absorbed  beyond 
explanatory  speech —  "  They  got  four  horses,  two 

18 


The  Prairie 

to  ride  and  two  extra  ones,  and  a  cow.  I  don't  see 
how  they're  goin'  to  keep  up  the  pace  with  the  cow 
along.  The  old  gentleman  says  they  can  do  twenty 
to  twenty-five  miles  a  day  when  the  road's  good. 
But  I  don't  seem  to  see  how  the  cow  can  keep  up 
such  a  lick." 

"  A  hired  man,  a  cow,  and  an  outfit  that  it  took 
all  winter  to  get  together,"  said  David  thought 
fully.  "  It  sounds  more  like  a  pleasure  trip  than 
going  across  the  plains." 

He  sat  as  if  uneasily  debating  the  possible  draw 
backs  of  so  elaborate  an  escort,  but  he  was  really 
ruminating  upon  the  princess,  who  moved  upon  the 
wilderness  with  such  pomp  and  circumstance. 

As  they  set  out  their  tin  cups  and  plates  they  con 
tinued  to  discuss  the  doctor,  his  caravan,  his  mules, 
his  servant,  and  his  cow,  in  fact,  everything  but 
his  daughter.  It  was  noticeable  that  no  mention 
of  her  was  made  till  supper  was  over  and  the  night 
fell.  Then  their  comments  on  her  were  brief.  Leff 
seemed  afraid  of  her  even  a  mile  away  in  the 
damp  hotel  at  Independence,  seemed  to  fear  that 
she  might  in  some  way  know  he'd  had  her  name 
upon  his  tongue,  and  would  come  to-morrow  with 
angry,  accusing  looks  like  an  offended  goddess. 
David  did  not  want  to  talk  about  her,  he  did  not 
quite  know  why.  Before  the  thought  of  traveling 
a  month  in  her  society  his  mind  fell  back  reeling, 
baffled  by  the  sudden  entrance  of  such  a  dazzling 
intruder.  A  month  beside  this  glowing  figure,  a 
month  under  the  impersonal  interrogation  of  those 

19 


The  Emigrant  Trail 

cool,  demanding  eyes!  It  was  as  if  the  President 
or  General  Zachary  Taylor  had  suddenly  joined 
them. 

But  of  course  she  figured  larger  in  their  thoughts 
than  any  other  part  or  all  the  combined  parts  of  Dr. 
Gillespie's  outfit.  In  their  imaginations — the  hun 
gry  imaginations  of  lonely  young  men — she  repre 
sented  all  the  grace,  beauty,  and  mystery  of  the 
Eternal  Feminine.  They  did  not  reason  about  her, 
they  only  felt,  and  what  they  felt — unconsciously 
to  themselves — was  that  she  had  introduced  the 
last,  wildest,  and  most  disturbing  thrill  into  the  ad 
venture  of  the  great  journey. 


CHAPTER    III 

THE  next  day  broke  still  and  clear.  The  dawn 
was  yet  a  pale  promise  in  the  East  when  from  In 
dependence,  out  through  the  dripping  woods  and 
clearings,  rose  the  tumult  of  breaking  camps.  The 
rattle  of  the  yoke  chains  and  the  raucous  cry  of 
"Catch  up!  Catch  up!"  sounded  under  the  trees 
and  out  and  away  over  valley  and  upland  as  the 
lumbering  wagons,  freighted  deep  for  the  long 
trail,  swung  into  the  road. 

David's  camp  was  astir  long  before  the  sun  was 
up.  The  great  hour  had  come.  They  were  going! 
They  sung  and  shouted  as  they  harnessed  Bess  and 
Ben,  a  pair  of  sturdy  roans  bought  from  an  emi 
grant  discouraged  before  the  start,  while  the  saddle 
horses  nosed  about  the  tree  roots  for  a  last  crop 
ping  of  the  sweet,  thick  grass.  Inside  the  wagon 
the  provisions  were  packed  in  sacks  and  the  rifles 
hung  on  hooks  on  the  canvas  walls.  At  the  back, 
on  a  supporting  step,  the  mess  chest  was  strapped. 
It  was  a  businesslike  wagon.  Its  contents  included 
only  one  deviation  from  the  practical  and  necessary 
— three  books  of  David's.  Joe  had  laughed  at 
him  about  them.  What  did  a  man  want  with 
Byron's  poems  and  Milton  and  Bacon's  "  Essays  " 
crossing  the  plains?  Neither  Joe  nor  Left  could 

21 


The  Emigrant  Trail 

understand  such  devotion  to  the  printed  page. 
Their  kits  were  of  the  compactest,  not  a  useless 
article  or  an  unnecessary  pound,  unless  you  counted 
the  box  of  flower  seeds  that  belonged  to  Joe,  who 
had  heard  that  California,  though  a  dry  country, 
could  be  coaxed  into  productiveness  along  the 
rivers. 

Dr.  Gillespie  and  his  daughter  were  punctual. 
David's  silver  watch,  large  as  the  circle  of  a  cup 
and  possessed  of  a  tick  so  loud  it  interrupted 
conversation,  registered  five  minutes  before  seven, 
when  the  doctor  and  his  daughter  appeared  at  the 
head  of  their  caravan.  Two  handsome  figures,  well 
mounted  and  clad  with  taste  as  well  as  suitability, 
they  looked  as  gallantly  unfitted  for  the  road  as 
armored  knights  in  a  modern  battlefield.  Good 
looks,  physical  delicacy,  and  becoming  clothes  had 
as  yet  no  recognized  place  on  the  trail.  The  Gil- 
lespies  were  boldly  and  blithely  bringing  them,  and 
unlike  most  innovators,  romance  came  with  them. 
Nobody  had  gone  out  of  Independence  with  so 
confident  and  debonair  an  air.  Now  advancing 
through  a  spattering  of  leaf  shadows  and  sunspots, 
they  seemed  to  the  young  men  to  be  issuing  from 
the  first  pages  of  a  story,  and  the  watchers  secretly 
hoped  that  they  would  go  riding  on  into  the  heart 
of  it  with  the  white  arch  of  the  prairie  schooner 
and  the  pricked  ears  of  the  six  mules  as  a  movable 
background. 

There  was  no  umbrella  this  morning  to  obscure 
Miss  Gillespie's  vivid  tints,  and  in  the  same  flat, 

22 


The  Prairie 

straw  hat,  with  her  cheeks  framed  in  little  black 
curls,  she  looked  a  freshly  wholesome  young  girl, 
who  might  be  dangerous  to  the  peace  of  mind  of 
men  even  less  lonely  and  susceptible  than  the  two 
who  bid  her  a  flushed  and  bashful  good  morning. 
She  had  the  appearance,  however,  of  being  entirely 
oblivious  to  any  embarrassment  they  might  show. 
There  was  not  a  suggestion  of  coquetry  in  her  man 
ner  as  she  returned  their  greetings.  Instead,  it  was 
marked  by  a  businesslike  gravity.  Her  eyes 
touched  their  faces  with  the  slightest  welcoming 
light  and  then  left  them  to  rove,  sharply  inspecting, 
over  their  wagon  and  animals.  When  she  had  scru 
tinized  these,  she  turned  in  her  saddle,  and  said 
abruptly  to  the  driver  of  the  six  mules: 

"  Daddy  John,  do  you  see — horses  ?  " 

The  person  thus  addressed  nodded  and  said  in  a 
thin,  old  voice, 

"  I  do,  and  if  they  want  them  they're  welcome  to 
them." 

He  was  a  small,  shriveled  man,  who  might  have 
been  anywhere  from  sixty  to  seventy-five.  A  bat 
tered  felt  hat,  gray-green  with  wind  and  sun,  was 
pulled  well  down  to  his  ears,  pressing  against  his 
forehead  and  neck  thin  locks  of  gray  hair.  A 
grizzle  of  beard  edged  his  chin,  a  poor  and  scanty 
growth  that  showed  the  withered  skin  through  its 
sparseness.  His  face,  small  and  wedge-shaped,  was 
full  of  ruddy  color,  the  cheeks  above  the  ragged 
hair  smooth  and  red  as  apples.  Though  his  mouth 
was  deficient  in  teeth,  his  neck,  rising  bare  from  the 

23 


The  Emigrant  Trail 

band  of  his  shirt,  corrugated  with  the  starting 
sinews  of  old  age,  he  had  a  shrewd  vivacity  of 
glance,  an  alertness  of  poise,  that  suggested  an  un 
impaired  spiritual  vitality.  He  seemed  at  home  be 
hind  the  mules,  and  here,  for  the  first  time,  David 
felt  was  some  one  who  did  not  look  outside  the  pic 
ture.  In  fact,  he  had  an  air  of  tranquil  acceptance 
of  the  occasion,  of  adjustment  without  effort,  that 
made  him  fit  into  the  frame  better  than  anyone  else 
of  the  party. 

It  was  a  glorious  morning,  and  as  they  fared 
forward  through  the  checkered  shade  their  spirits 
ran  high.  The  sun,  curious  and  determined,  pried 
and  slid  through  every  crack  in  the  leafage,  turned 
the  flaked  lichen  to  gold,  lay  in  clotted  light  on  the 
pools  around  the  fern  roots.  They  were  delicate 
spring  woods,  streaked  with  the  white  dashes  of 
the  dogwood,  and  hung  with  the  tassels  of  the 
maple.  The  foliage  was  still  unfolding,  patterned 
with  fresh  creases,  the  prey  of  a  continuous,  frail 
unrest.  Little  streams  chuckled  through  the  un 
derbrush,  and  from  the  fusion  of  woodland  whis 
perings  bird  notes  detached  themselves,  soft  flut- 
ings  and  liquid  runs,  that  gave  another  expression 
to  the  morning's  blithe  mood. 

Between  the  woods  there  were  stretches  of  open 
country,  velvet  smooth,  with  the  trees  slipped  down 
to  where  the  rivers  ran.  The  grass  wras  as  green 
as  sprouting  grain,  and  a  sweet  smell  of  wet  earth 
and  seedling  growths  came  from  it.  Cloud  shadows 
trailed  across  it,  blue  blotches  moving  languidly. 

24 


The  Prairie 

It  was  the  young  earth  in  its  blushing  promise,  fra 
grant,  rain-washed,  budding,  with  the  sound  of 
running  water  in  the  grass  and  bird  voices  dropping 
from  the  sky. 

With  their  lighter  wagons  they  passed  the  ox 
trains  plowing  stolidly  through  the  mud,  barefoot 
children  running  at  the  wheel,  and  women  knitting 
on  the  front  seat.  The  driver's  whip  lash  curled  in 
the  air,  and  his  nasal  "  Gee  haw  "  swung  the  yoked 
beasts  slowly  to  one  side.  Then  came  detachments 
of  Santa  Fe  traders,  dark  men  in  striped  scrapes 
with  silver  trimmings  round  their  high-peaked  hats. 
Behind  them  stretched  the  long  line  of  wagons,  the 
ponderous  freighters  of  the  Santa  Fe  Trail,  rolling 
into  Independence  from  the  Spanish  towns  that  lay 
beyond  the  burning  deserts  of  the  Cimarron.  They 
filed  by  in  slow  procession,  a  vision  of  faded  colors 
and  swarthy  faces,  jingle  of  spur  and  mule  bell 
mingling  with  salutations  in  sonorous  Spanish. 

As  the  day  grew  warmer,  the  doctor  complained 
of  the  heat  and  went  back  to  the  wagon.  David 
and  the  young  girl  rode  on  together  through  the 
green  thickness  of  the  wood.  They  had  talked  a 
little  while  the  doctor  was  there,  and  now,  left  to 
themselves,  they  suddenly  began  to  talk  a  good 
deal.  In  fact,  Miss  Gillespie  revealed  herself  as  a 
somewhat  garrulous  and  quite  friendly  person. 
David  felt  his  awed  admiration  settling  into  a  much 
more  comfortable  feeling,  still  wholly  admiring  but 
relieved  of  the  cramping  consciousness  that  he  had 
entertained  an  angel  unawares.  She  was  so  natural 

25 


The  Emigrant  Trail 

and  girlish  that  he  began  to  cherish  hopes  of  ad 
dressing  her  as  "  Miss  Susan,"  even  let  vaulting 
ambition  carry  him  to  the  point  where  he  could 
think  of  some  day  calling  himself  her  friend. 

She  was  communicative,  and  he  was  still  too 
dazzled  by  her  to  realize  that  she  was  not  above 
asking  questions.  In  the  course  of  a  half  hour  she 
knew  all  about  him,  and  he,  without  the  courage  to 
be  thus  flatteringly  curious,  knew  the  main  points 
of  her  own  history.  Her  father  had  been  a  practic 
ing  physician  in  Rochester  for  the  past  fifteen 
years.  Before  that  he  had  lived  in  New  York, 
where  she  had  been  born  twenty  years  ago.  Her 
mother  had  been  a  Canadian,  a  French  woman 
from  the  Province  of  Quebec,  whom  her  father  had 
met  there  one  summer  when  he  had  gone  to  fish  in 
Lake  St.  John.  Her  mother  had  been  very  beauti 
ful — David  nodded  at  that,  he  had  already  decided 
it — and  had  always  spoken  English  with  an  accent. 
She,  the  daughter,  when  she  was  little,  spoke 
French  before  she  did  English ;  in  fact,  did  not  Mr. 
Crystal  notice  there  was  still  something  a  little 
queer  about  her  r's  ? 

Mr.  Crystal  had  noticed  it,  noticed  it  to  the  ex 
tent  of  thinking  it  very  pretty.  The  young  lady 
dismissed  the  compliment  as  one  who  does  not 
hear,  and  went  on  with  her  narrative: 

"  After  my  mother's  death  my  father  left  New 
York.  He  couldn't  bear  to  live  there  any  more. 
He'd  been  so  happy.  So  he  moved  away,  though 
he  had  a  fine  practice/' 

26 


The  Prairie 

The  listener  gave  forth  a  murmur  of  sympathetic 
understanding.  Devotion  to  a  beautiful  woman 
was  matter  of  immediate  appeal  to  him.  His  re 
spect  for  the  doctor  rose  in  proportion,  especially 
when  the  devotion  was  weighed  in  the  balance 
against  a  fine  practice.  Looking  at  the  girl's  profile 
with  prim  black  curls  against  the  cheek,  he  saw  the 
French-Canadian  mother,  and  said  not  gallantly, 
but  rather  timidly : 

"  And  you're  like  your  mother,  I  suppose  ? 
You're  dark  like  a  French  woman." 

She  answered  this  with  a  brusque  denial.  Ex 
tracting  compliments  from  the  talk  of  a  shy  young 
Westerner  was  evidently  not  her  strong  point. 

"  Oh,  no !  not  at  all.  My  mother  was  pale  and 
tall,  with  very  large  black  eyes.  I  am  short  and 
dark  and  my  eyes  are  only  just  big  enough  to  see 
out  of.  She  was  delicate  and  I  am  very  strong. 
My  father  says  I've  never  been  sick  since  I  got  my 
first  teeth." 

She  looked  at  him  and  laughed,  and  he  real 
ized  it.  was  the  first  time  he  had  seen  her  do  it. 
It  brightened  her  face  delightfully,  making  the 
eyes  she  had  spoken  of  so  disparagingly  narrow 
into  dancing  slits.  When  she  laughed  men  who 
had  not  lost  the  nicety  of  their  standards  by  a  so 
journ  on  the  frontier  would  have  called  her  a  pretty 
girl. 

"  My  mother  was  of  the  French  noblesse"  she 
said,  a  dark  eye  upon  him  to  see  how  he  would  take 
this  dignified  piece  of  information.  "  She  was  a 

27 


The  Emigrant  Trail 

descendant  of  the  Baron  de  Poutrincourt,  who 
founded  Port  Royal." 

David  was  as  impressed  as  anyone  could  have  de 
sired.  He  did  not  know  what  the  French  noblesse 
was,  but  by  its  sound  he  judged  it  to  be  some  high 
and  honorable  estate.  He  was  equally  ignorant  of 
the  identity  of  the  Baron  de  Poutrincourt,  but  the 
name  alone  was  impressive,  especially  as  Miss  Gil- 
lespie  pronounced  it. 

"  That's  fine,  isn't  it?  "  he  said,  as  being  the  only 
comment  he  could  think  of  which  at  once  showed 
admiration  and  concealed  ignorance. 

The  young  woman  seemed  to  find  it  adequate 
and  went  on  with  her  family  history.  Five  years 
ago  in  Washington  her  father  had  seen  his  old 
friend,  Marcus  Whitman,  and  since  then  had  been 
restless  with  the  longing  to  move  West.  His  health 
demanded  the  change.  His  labors  as  a  physician 
had  exhausted  him.  His  daughter  spoke  feelingly 
of  the  impossibility  of  restraining  his  charitable 
zeal.  He  attended  the  poor  for  nothing.  He  rose 
at  any  hour  and  went  forth  in  any  weather  in  re 
sponse  to.  the  call  of  suffering. 

"  That's  what  he  says  a  doctor's  duties  are,"  she 
said.  "  It  isn't  a  profession  to  make  money  with, 
it's  a  profession  for  helping  people  and  curing 
them.  You  yourself  don't  count,  it's  only  what  you 
do  that  does.  Why,  my  father  had  a  very  large 
practice,  but  he  made  only  just  enough  to  keep  us." 

Of  all  she  had  said  this  seemed  to  the  listener 
the  best  worth  hearing.  The  doctor  now  mounted 

28 


The  Prairie 

to  the  top  of  the  highest  pedestal  David's  admira 
tion  could  supply.  Here  was  one  of  the  compensa 
tions  with  which  life  keeps  the  balances  even.  Joe 
had  died  and  left  him  friendless,  and  while  the  ache 
was  still  sharp,  this  stranger  and  his  daughter  had 
come  to  soothe  his  pain,  perhaps,  in  the  course  of 
time,  to  conjure  it  quite  away. 

Early  in  the  preceding  winter  the  doctor  had 
been  forced  to  decide  on  the  step  he  had  been  long 
contemplating.  An  attack  of  congestion  of  the 
lungs  developed  consumption  in  his  weakened  con 
stitution.  A  warm  climate  and  an  open-air  life 
were  prescribed.  And  how  better  combine  them 
than  by  emigrating  to  California? 

"  And  so,"  said  the  doctor's  daughter,  "  father 
made  up  his  mind  to  go  and  sold  out  his  practice. 
People  thought  he  was  crazy  to  start  on  such  a  trip 
when  he  was  sick,  but  he  knows  more  than  they  do. 
Besides,  it's  not  going  to  be  such  hard  work  for 
him.  Daddy  John,  the  old  man  who  drives  the 
mules,  knows  all  about  this  Western  country.  He 
was  here  a  long  time  ago  when  Indiana  and  Illinois 
were  wild  and  full  of  Indians.  He  got  wounded 
out  here  fighting  and  thought  he  was  going  to  die, 
and  came  back  to  New  York.  My  father  found 
him  there,  poor  and  lonely  and  sick,  and  took  care 
of  him  and  cured  him.  He's  been  with  us  ever 
since,  more  than  twenty  years,  and  he  manages 
everything  and  takes  care  of  everything.  He  and 
father '11  tell  you  I  rule  them,  but  that's  just  teasing. 
It's  really  Daddy  John  who  rules." 

29 


The  Emigrant  Trail 

The  mules  were  just  behind  them,  and  she  looked 
back  at  the  old  man  and  called  in  her  clear  voice : 

"  I'm  talking  about  you,  Daddy  John.  I'm  tell 
ing  all  about  your  wickedness." 

Daddy  John's  answer  came  back,  slow  and 
amused : 

"  Wait  till  I  get  the  young  feller  alone  and  I'll  do 
some  talking." 

Laughing,  she  settled  herself  in  her  saddle  and 
dropped  her  voice  for  David's  ear : 

"  I  think  Daddy  John  was  quite  pleased  we 
missed  the  New  York  train.  It  was  a  big  com 
pany,  and  he  couldn't  have  managed  everything  the 
way  he  can  now.  But  we'll  soon  catch  it  up  and 
then  " — she  lifted  her  eyebrows  and  smiled  with 
charming  malice  at  the  thought  of  Daddy  John's 
coming  subjugation.  "  We  ought  to  overtake  it  in 
three  or  four  weeks  they  said  in  Independence." 

Her  companion  made  no  answer.  The  cheerful 
conversation  had  suddenly  taken  a  depressing  turn. 
Under  the  spell  of  Miss  Gillespie's  loquacity  and 
black  eyes  he  had  quite  forgotten  that  he  was  only 
a  temporary  escort,  to  be  superseded  by  an  entire 
ox  train,  of  which  even  now  they  were  in  pursuit. 
David  was  a  dreamer,  and  while  the  young  woman 
talked,  he  had  seen  them  both  in  diminishing  per 
spective,  passing  sociably  across  the  plains,  over  the 
mountains,  into  the  desert,  to  where  California 
edged  with  a  prismatic  gleam  the  verge  of  the 
world.  They  were  to  go  riding,  and  talking  on, 
their  acquaintance  ripening  gradually  and  delight- 

30 


The  Prairie 

fully,  while  the  enormous  panorama  of  the  continent 
unrolled  behind  them.  And  it  might  end  in  three 
or  four  weeks!  The  Emigrant  Trail  looked  over 
whelmingly  long  when  he  could  only  see  himself 
and  Leff  riding  over  it,  and  California  lost  its  color 
and  grew  as  gray  as  a  line  of  sea  fog. 

That  evening's  camp  was  pitched  in  a  clearing 
near  the  road.  The  woods  pressed  about  them, 
whispering  and  curious,  thrown  out  and  then 
blotted  as  the  fires  leaped  or  died.  It  was  the  first 
night's  bivouac,  and  much  noise  and  bustle  went  to 
its  accomplishment.  The  young  men  covertly 
watched  the  Gillespie  Camp.  How  would  this  or 
namental  party  cope  with  such  unfamiliar  labors? 
With  its  combination  of  a  feminine  element  which 
must  be  helpless  by  virtue  of  a  rare  and  dainty  fine 
ness  and  a  masculine  element  which  could  hardly  be 
otherwise  because  of  ill  health,  it  would  seem  that 
all  the  work  must  devolve  upon  the  old  man. 

Nothing,  however,  was  further  from  the  fact. 
The  Gillespies  rose  to  the  occasion  with  the  same 
dauntless  buoyancy  that  they  had  shown  in  ever  at 
tempting  the  undertaking,  and  then  blithely  defying 
public  opinion  with  a  servant  and  a  cow.  The  sense 
of  their  unfitness  which  had  made  the  young  men 
uneasy  now  gave  way  to  secret  wonder  as  the  doc 
tor  pitched  the  tent  like  a  backwoodsman,  and  his 
daughter  showed  a  skilled  acquaintance  with  camp 
ers'  biscuit  making. 

She  did  it  so  well,  so  without  hurry  and  with 
knowledge,  that  it  was  worth  while  watching  her, 

31 


The  Emigrant  Trail 

if  David's  own  cooking  could  have  spared  him.  He 
did  find  time  once  to  offer  her  assistance  and  that 
she  refused,  politely  but  curtly.  With  sleeves  rolled 
to  the  elbow,  her  hat  off,  showing  a  roll  of  hair  on 
the  crown  of  her  head  separated  by  a  neat  parting 
from  the  curls  that  hung  against  her  cheeks,  she 
was  absorbed  in  the  business  in  hand.  Evidently 
she  was  one  of  those  persons  to  whom  the  matter 
of  the  moment  is  the  only  matter.  When  her  bis 
cuits  were  done,  puffy  and  brown,  she  volunteered 
a  preoccupied  explanation : 

"I've  been  learning  to  do  this  all  winter,  and 
I'm  going  to  do  it  right." 

And  even  then  it  was  less  an  excuse  for  her 
abruptness  than  the  announcement  of  a  compact 
with  herself,  steadfast,  almost  grim. 

After  supper  they  sat  by  the  fire,  silent  with 
fatigue,  the  scent  of  the  men's  tobacco  on  the  air, 
the  girl,  with  her  hands  clasping  her  knees,  look 
ing  into  the  flames.  In  the  shadows  behind  the  old 
servant  moved  about.  They  could  hear  him  croon 
ing  to  the  mules,  and  then  catch  a  glimpse  of  his 
gnomelike  figure  bearing  blankets  from  the  wagon 
to  the  tent.  There  came  a  point  where  his  labors 
seemed  ended,  but  his  activity  had  merely  changed 
its  direction.  He  came  forward  and  said  to  the  girl, 

"  Missy,  your  bed's  ready.  You'd  better  be  go 
ing." 

She  gave  a  groan  and  a  movement  of  protest  un 
der  which  was  the  hopeless  acquiescence  of  the 
conquered : 

32 


The  Prairie 

"  Not  yet,  Daddy  John.  I'm  so  comfortable  sit 
ting  here." 

*  There's  two  thousand  miles  before  you. 
Mustn't  get  tired  this  early.  Come  now,  get 
up." 

His  manner  held  less  of  urgence  than  of  quiet 
command.  He  was  not  dictatorial,  but  he  was  de 
termined.  The  girl  looked  at  him,  sighed,  rose  to 
her  knees,  and  then  made  a  last  appeal  to  her 
father : 

"  Father,  do  take  my  part.  Daddy  John's  too 
interfering  for  words !  " 

But  her  father  would  only  laugh  at  her  discom 
fiture. 

"  All  right,"  she  said  as  she  bent  down  to  kiss 
him.  "  It'll  be  your  turn  in  just  about  five  minutes." 

It  was  an  accurate  prophecy.  The  tent  flaps  had 
hardly  closed  on  her  when  Daddy  John  attacked  his 
employer. 

"  Coin'  now  ?  "  he  said,  sternly. 

The  doctor  knew  his  fate,  and  like  his  daughter 
offered  a  spiritless  and  intimidated  resistance. 

"  Just  let  me  finish  this  pipe,"  he  pleaded. 

Daddy  John  was  inexorable : 

"  It's  no  way  to  get  cured  settin'  round  the  fire 
puffin'  on  a  pipe." 

:f  Ten  minutes  longer?" 

"  We'll  roll  out  to-morrer  at  seven." 

"  Daddy  John,  go  to  bed !  " 

"  I  got  to  see  you  both  tucked  in  for  the  night 
before  I  do.  Can't  trust  either  of  you." 

33 


The  Emigrant  Trail 

The  doctor,  beaten,  knocked  the  ashes  out  of  his 
pipe  and  rose  with  resignation. 

"  This  is  the  family  skeleton/'  he  said  to  the 
young  men  who  watched  the  performance  with  cu 
riosity.  "  We're  ground  under  the  heel  of  Daddy 
John." 

Then  he  thrust  his  hand  through  the  old  ser 
vant's  arm  and  they  walked  toward  the  wagon, 
their  heads  together,  laughing  like  a  pair  of 
boys. 

A  few  minutes  later  the  camp  had  sunk  to  si 
lence.  The  doctor  was  stowed  away  in  the  wagon 
and  Miss  Gillespie  had  drawn  the  tent  flaps  round 
the  mystery  of  her  retirement.  David  and  Leff,  too 
tired  to  pitch  theirs,  were  dropping  to  sleep  by  the 
fire,  when  the  girl's  voice,  low,  but  penetrating, 
roused  them. 

"  Daddy  John,"  it  hissed  in  the  tone  children  em 
ploy  in  their  games  of  hide-and-seek,  "  Daddy 
John,  are  you  awake  ?  " 

The  old  man,  who  had  been  stretched  before  the 
fire,  rose  to  a  sitting  posture,  wakeful  and  alert. 

'  Yes,  Missy,  what's  the  matter?  Can't  you 
sleep?" 

"  It's  not  that,  but  it's  so  hard  to  fix  anything. 
There's  no  light." 

Here  it  became  evident  to  the  watchers  that  Miss 
Gillespie's  head  was  thrust  out  through  the  tent 
opening,  the  canvas  held  together  below  her  chin. 
Against  the  pale  background,  it  was  like  the  vision 
of  a  decapitated  head  hung  on  a  white  wall. 

34 


The  Prairie 

"What  is  it  you  want  to  fix?"  queried  the  old 
man. 

"  My  hair,"  she  hissed  back.  "  I  want  to  put  it 
up  in  papers,  and  I  can't  see." 

Then  the  secret  of  Daddy  John's  power  was  re 
vealed.  He  who  had  so  remorselessly  driven  her 
to  bed  now  showed  no  surprise  or  disapprobation  at 
her  frivolity.  It  was  as  if  her  wish  to  beautify 
herself  received  his  recognition  as  an  accepted 
vagary  of  human  nature. 

"  Just  wait  a  minute,"  he  said,  scrambling  out  of 
his  blanket,  "  and  I'll  get  you  a  light." 

The  young  men  could  not  but  look  on  all  agape 
with  curiosity  to  see  what  the  resourceful  old  man 
intended  getting.  Could  the  elaborately  complete 
Gillespie  outfit  include  candles?  Daddy  John  soon 
ended  their  uncertainty.  He  drew  from  the  fire  a 
thick  brand,  brilliantly  aflame,  and  carried  it  to  the 
tent.  Miss  Gillespie's  immovable  head  eyed  it  with 
some  uneasiness. 

"  I've  nothing  to  put  it  in,"  she  objected,  "  and  I 
can't  hold  it  while  I'm  doing  up  my  hair." 

"  I  will,"  said  the  old  man.  "  Get  in  the  tent 
now  and  get  your  papers  ready." 

The  head  withdrew,  its  retirement  to  be  imme 
diately  followed  by  her  voice  slightly  muffled  by  the 
intervening  canvas : 

"  Now  I'm  ready." 

Daddy  John  cautiously  parted  the  opening,  in 
serted  the  torch,  and  stood  outside,  the  canvas  flaps 
carefully  closed  round  his  hand.  With  the  intrusion 

35 


The  Emigrant  Trail 

of  the  flaming  brand  the  tent  suddenly  became  a 
rosy  transparency.  The  young  girl's  figure  moved 
in  the  midst  of  the  glow,  a  shape  of  nebulous  dark 
ness,  its  outlines  lost  in  the  mist  of  enfolding 
draperies. 

Leff,  softly  lifting  himself  on  his  elbows,  gazed 
fascinated  upon  this  discreet  vision.  Then  looking 
at  David  he  saw  that  he  had  turned  over  and  was 
lying  with  his  face  on  his  arms.  Leff  leaned  from 
the  blankets  and  kicked  him,  a  gentle  but  meaning 
kick  on  the  leg. 

To  his  surprise  David  lifted  a  wakeful  face,  the 
brow  furrowed  with  an  angry  frown. 

"  Can't  you  go  to  sleep,"  he  muttered  crossly. 
"  Let  that  girl  curl  her  hair,  and  go  to  sleep  like  a 
man." 

He  dropped  his  face  once  more  on  his  arms.  Leff 
felt  unjustly  snubbed,  but  that  did  not  prevent  him 
from  watching  the  faintly  defined  aura  of  shadow 
which  he  knew  to  be  the  dark  young  woman  he 
was  too  shy  to  look  at  when  he  met  her  face  to 
face.  He  continued  watching  till  the  brand  died 
down  to  a  spark  and  Daddy  John  withdrew  it  and 
went  back  to  his  fire. 


CHAPTER    IV 

IN  their  division  of  labor  David  and  Left  had 
decided  that  one  was  to  drive  the  wagon  in  the 
morning,  the  other  in  the  afternoon.  This  morn 
ing  it  was  David's  turn,  and  as  he  "  rolled  out "  at 
the  head  of  the  column  he  wondered  if  Left  would 
now  ride  beside  Miss  Gillespie  and  lend  attentive 
ear  to  her  family  chronicles.  But  Leff  was  evi 
dently  not  for  dallying  by  the  side  of  beauty.  He 
galloped  off  alone,  vanishing  through  the  thin  mists 
that  hung  like  a  fairy's  draperies  among  the  trees. 
The  Gillespies  rode  at  the  end  of  the  train.  Even 
if  he  could  not  see  them  David  felt  their  nearness, 
and  it  added  to  the  contentment  that  always  came 
upon  him  from  a  fair  prospect  lying  under  a  smil 
ing  sky.  At  harmony  with  the  moment  and  the 
larger  life  outside  it,  he  leaned  back  against  the 
canvas  hood  and  let  a  dreamy  gaze  roam  over  the 
serene  and  opulent  landscape. 

Nature  had  always  soothed  and  uplifted  him, 
been  like  an  opiate  to  anger  or  pain.  As  a  boy  his 
troubles  had  lost  their  sting  in  the  consoling  large 
ness  of  the  open,  under  the  shade  of  trees,  within 
sight  of  the  bowing  wheat  fields  with  the  wind 
making  patterns  on  the  seeded  grain.  Now  his 
thoughts,  drifting  aimless  as  thistle  fluff,  went  back 

37 


The  Emigrant  Trail 

to  those  childish  days  of  country  freedom,  when  he 
had  spent  his  vacations  at  his  uncle's  farm.  He 
used  to  go  with  his  widowed  mother,  a  forlorn, 
soured  woman  who  rarely  smiled.  He  remembered 
his  irritated  wonder  as  she  sat  complaining  in  the 
ox  cart,  while  he  sent  his  eager  glance  ahead  over 
the  sprouting  acres  to  where  the  log  farmhouse — 
the  haven  of  fulfilled  dreams — stretched  in  its  squat 
ugliness.  He  could  feel  again  the  inward  lift,  the 
flying  out  of  his  spirit  in  a  rush  of  welcoming 
ecstasy,  as  he  saw  the  woods  hanging  misty  on  the 
horizon  and  the  clay  bluffs,  below  which  the  slow, 
quiet  river  uncoiled  its  yellow  length. 

The  days  at  the  farm  had  been  the  happiest  of 
his  life — wonderful  days  of  fishing  and  swimming, 
of  sitting  in  gnarled  tree  boughs  so  still  the  nest 
ing  birds  lost  their  fear  and  came  back  to  their 
eggs.  For  hours  he  had  lain  in  patches  of  shade 
watching  the  cloud  shadows  on  the  fields,  and  the 
great  up-pilings  when  storms  were  coming,  rising 
black-bosomed  against  the  blue.  There  had  been 
some  dark  moments  to  throw  out  these  brighter 
ones — when  chickens  were  killed  and  he  had  tried 
to  stand  by  and  look  swaggeringly  unconcerned  as 
a  boy  should,  while  he  sickened  internally  and  shut 
his  lips  over  pleadings  for  mercy.  And  there  was 
an  awful  day  when  pigs  were  slaughtered,  and  no 
one  knew  that  he  stole  away  to  the  elder  thickets  by 
the  river,  burrowed  deep  into  them,  and  stopped 
his  ears  against  the  shrill,  agonized  cries.  He  knew 
such  weakness  was  shameful  and  hid  it  with  a 

38 


The  Prairie 

child's  subtlety.     At  supper  he  told  skillful  lies  to 
account  for  his  pale  cheeks  and  lost  appetite. 

His  uncle,  a  kindly  generous  man,  without  chil 
dren  of  his  own,  had  been  fond  of  him  and  sympa 
thized  with  his  wish  for  an  education.  It  was  he 
who  had  made  it  possible  for  the  boy  to  go  to  a 
good  school  at  Springfield  and  afterwards  to  study 
law.  How  hard  he  had  worked  in  those  school 
years,  and  what  realms  of  wonder  had  been  opened 
to  him  through  books,  the  first  books  he  had  known, 
reverently  handled,  passionately  read,  that  led  him 
into  unknown  worlds,  pointed  the  way  to  ideals 
that  could  be  realized !  With  the  law  books  he  was 
not  in  so  good  an  accord.  But  it  was  his  chosen 
profession,  and  he  approached  it  with  zeal  and  high 
enthusiasm,  a  young  apostle  who  would  sell  his 
services  only  for  the  right. 

Now  he  smiled,  looking  back  at  his  disillusion. 
The  young  apostle  was  jostled  out  of  sight  in  the 
bustle  of  the  growing  town.  There  was  no  room  in 
it  for  idealists  who  were  diffident  and  sensitive  and 
stood  on  the  outside  of  its  self-absorbed  activity  be 
wildered  by  the  noises  of  life.  The  stream  of  events 
was  very  different  from  the  pages  of  books.  David 
saw  men  and  women  struggling  toward  strange 
goals,  fighting  for  soiled  and  sordid  prizes,  and  felt 
as  he  had  done  on  the  farm  when  the  pigs  were 
killed.  And  as  he  had  fled  from  that  ugly  scene  to 
the  solacing  quiet  of  Nature,  he  turned  from  the 
tumult  of  the  little  town  to  the  West,  upon  whose 
edge  he  stood. 

39 


The  Emigrant  Trail 

It  called  him  like  a  voice  in  the  night.  The  spell 
of  its  borderless  solitudes,  its  vast  horizons,  its  be 
nign  silences,  grew  stronger  as  he  felt  himself 
powerless  and  baffled  among  the  fighting  energies 
of  men.  He  dreamed  of  a  life  there,  moving  in 
unobstructed  harmony.  A  man  could  begin  in  a 
fresh,  clean  world,  and  be  what  he  wanted,  be  a 
young  apostle  in  his  own  way.  His  boy  friend  who 
had  gone  to  Oregon  fired  his  imagination  with 
stories  of  Marcus  Whitman  and  his  brother  mis 
sionaries.  David  did  not  want  to  be  a  missionary, 
but  he  wanted,  with  a  young  man's  solemn  serious 
ness,  to  make  his  life  of  profit  to  mankind,  to  do 
the  great  thing  without  self-interest.  So  he  had 
yearned  and  chafed  while  he  read  law  and  waited 
for  clients  and  been  as  a  man  should  to  his  mother, 
until  in  the  summer  of  1847  both  his  mother  and 
his  uncle  had  died,  the  latter  leaving  him  a  little 
fortune  of  four  thousand  dollars.  Then  the  Emi 
grant  Trail  lay  straight  before  him,  stretching  to 
California. 

The  reins  lay  loose  on  the  backs  of  Bess  and  Ben 
and  the  driver's  gaze  was  fixed  on  the  line  of  trees 
that  marked  the  course  of  an  unseen  fiver.  The 
dream  was  realized,  he  was  on  the  trail.  He  lifted 
his  eyes  to  the  sky  where  massed  clouds  slowly 
sailed  and  birds  flew,  shaking  notes  of  song  down 
upon  him.  Joe  was  dead,  but  the  world  was  still 
beautiful,  with  the  sun  on  the  leaves  and  the  wind 
on  the  grass,  with  the  kindliness  of  honest  men 
and  the  gracious  presence  of  women. 

40 


The  Prairie 

Dr.  Gillespie  was  the  first  dweller  in  that  un 
known  world  east  of  the  Alleghenies  whom  David 
had  met.  For  this  reason  alone  it  would  be  a  privi 
lege  to  travel  with  him.  How  great  the  privilege 
was,  the  young  man  did  not  know  till  he  rode  by 
the  doctor's  side  that  afternoon  and  they  talked  to 
gether  on  the  burning  questions  of  the  day;  or  the 
doctor  talked  and  David  hungrily  listened  to  the 
voice  of  education  and  experience. 

The  war  with  Mexico  was  one  of  the  first  sub 
jects.  The  doctor  regarded  it  as  a  discreditable 
performance,  unworthy  a  great  and  generous  na 
tion.  The  Mormon  question  followed,  and  on  this 
he  had  much  curious  information.  Living  in  the 
interior  of  New  York  State,  he  had  heard  Joseph 
Smith's  history  from  its  beginning,  when  he  posed 
as  "  a  money  digger  "  and  a  seer  who  could  read 
the  future  through  "  a  peek  stone."  The  recent 
polygamous  teachings  of  the  prophet  were  a  matter 
to  mention  with  lowered  voice.  Miss  Gillespie,  rid 
ing  on  the  other  side,  was  not  supposed  to  hear,  and 
certainly  appeared  to  take  no  interest  in  Mexico,  or 
Texas,  or  Joseph  Smith  and  his  unholy  doctrines. 

She  made  no  attempt  to  enter  into  the  conversa 
tion,  and  it  seemed  to  David,  who  now  and  then 
stole  a  shy  look  at  her  to  see  if  she  was  impressed 
by  his  intelligent  comments,  that  she  did  not  listen. 
Once  or  twice,  when  the  talk  was  at  its  acutest 
point  of  interest,  she  struck  her  horse  and  left 
them,  dashing  on  ahead  at  a  gallop.  At  another 
time  she  dropped  behind,  and  his  ear,  trained  in 


The  Emigrant  Trail 

her  direction,  heard  her  voice  in  alternation  with 
Daddy  John's.  When  she  joined  them  after  this 
withdrawal  she  was  bright  eyed  and  excited. 

"  Father,"  she  called  as  she  came  up  at  a  sharp 
trot,  "  Daddy  John  says  the  prairie's  not  far  be 
yond.  He  says  we'll  see  it  soon — the  prairie  that 
I've  been  thinking  of  all  winter !  " 

Her  enthusiasm  leaped  to  David  and  he  forgot 
the  Mexican  boundaries  and  the  polygamous  Mor 
mons,  and  felt  like  a  discoverer  on  the  prow  of  a 
ship  whose  keel  cuts  unknown  seas.  For  the  prairie 
was  still  a  word  of  wonder.  It  called  up  visions  of 
huge  unpeopled  spaces,  of  the  flare  of  far  flung 
sunsets,  of  the  plain  blackening  with  the  buffalo, 
of  the  smoke  wreath  rising  from  the  painted  tepee, 
and  the  Indian,  bronzed  and  splendid,  beneath  his 
feathered  crest. 

"  It's  there,"  she  cried,  pointing  with  her  whip. 
"  I  can't  wait.  I'm  going  on." 

David  longed  to  go  with  her,  but  the  doctor  was 
deep  in  the  extension  of  slavery  and  of  all  the  sub 
jects  this  burned  deepest.  The  prairie  was  inter 
esting  but  not  when  the  repeal  of  the  Missouri 
Compromise  was  on  the  carpet.  Watching  the 
girl's  receding  shape,  David  listened  respectfully 
and  heard  of  the  dangers  and  difficulties  that  were 
sure  to  follow  on  the  acquisition  of  the  great  strip 
of  Mexican  territory. 

All  afternoon  they  had  been  passing  through 
woods,  the  remnant  of  that  mighty  forest  which  had 
once  stretched  from  the  Missouri  to  the  Alle- 

42 


The  Prairie 

ghenies.  Now  its  compact  growth  had  become 
scattered  and  the  sky,  flaming  toward  sunset,  shone 
between  the  tree  trunks.  The  road  ascended  a 
slight  hill  and  at  the  top  of  this  Miss  Gillespie  ap 
peared  and  beckoned  to  them.  As  they  drew  near 
she  turned  and  made  a  sweeping  gesture  toward  the 
prospect.  The  open  prairie  lay  before  them. 

No  one  spoke.  In  mute  wonderment  they  gazed 
at  a  country  that  was  like  a  map  unrolled  at  their 
feet.  Still  as  a  vision  it  stretched  to  where  sky  and 
earth  fused  in  a  golden  haze.  No  sound  or  motion 
broke  its  dreaming  quiet,  vast,  brooding,  self- 
absorbed,  a  land  of  abundance  and  accomplishment, 
its  serenity  flowing  to  the  faint  horizon  blur.  Lines 
of  trees,  showing  like  veins,  followed  the  wander 
ing  of  streams,  or  gathered  in  clusters  to  suck  the 
moisture  of  springs.  Nearby  a  pool  gleamed,  a 
skin  of  gold  linked  by  the  thread  of  a  rivulet  to 
other  pools.  They  shone,  a  line  of  glistening  disks, 
imbedded  in  the  green.  Space  that  seemed  to 
stretch  to  the  edges  of  the  world,  the  verdure  of 
Eden,  the  silence  of  the  unpolluted,  unconquered 
earth  were  here. 

So  must  it  have  looked  when  the  beaked  Viking 
ships  nosed  along  the  fretted  shores  of  Rhode 
Island,  when  Columbus  took  the  sea  in  his  high- 
pooped  caravals,  when  the  Pilgrims  saw  the  rocks 
and  naked  boughs  of  the  New  England  coast.  So 
it  had  been  for  centuries,  roamed  by  wild  men  who 
had  perished  from  its  face  and  left  no  trace,  their 
habitation  as  a  shadow  in  the  sun,  their  work  as 

43 


The  Emigrant  Trail 

dew  upon  the  grass,  their  lives  as  the  lives  of  the 
mayfly  against  its  immemorial  antiquity. 

The  young  man  felt  his  spirit  mount  in  a  rush  of 
exaltation  like  a  prayer.  Some  fine  and  exquisite 
thing  in  himself  leaped  out  in  wild  response.  The 
vision  and  the  dream  were  for  a  moment  his.  And 
in  that  moment  life,  all  possible,  all  perfect, 
stretched  before  him,  to  end  in  a  triumphant  glory 
like  the  sunset. 

The  doctor  took  off  his  hat. 

"  The  heavens  declare  the  glory  of  God.  All  the 
earth  doth  magnify  his  name,"  he  said  in  a  low 
voice. 


44 


CHAPTER   V 

A  BROKEN  line  of  moving  dots,  the  little  company 
trailed  a  slow  way  across  this  ocean  of  green. 
Nothing  on  its  face  was  more  insignificant  than 
they.  The  birds  in  the  trees  and  the  bees  in  the 
flowers  had  a  more  important  place  in  its  economy. 
One  afternoon  David  riding  in  the  rear  crested  a 
ridge  and  saw  them  a  mile  in  advance,  the  road 
stretching  before  and  behind  them  in  a  curving 
thread.  The  tops  of  the  wagons  were  like  the 
backs  of  creeping  insects,  the  mounted  figures, 
specks  of  life  that  raised  a  slight  tarnish  of  dust 
on  the  golden  clearness.  He  wondered  at  their 
lack  of  consequence,  unregarded  particles  of  matter 
toiling  across  the  face  of  the  world. 

This  was  what  they  suggested  viewed  largely 
from  the  distance.  Close  at  hand — one  of  them — 
and  it  was  a  very  different  matter.  They  enjoyed 
it.  If  they  were  losing  their  significance  as  man 
in  the  aggregate,  the  tamer,  and  master,  they  were 
gaining  a  new  importance  as  distinct  and  separate 
units.  Convention  no  longer  pressed  on  them. 
What  law  there  was  they  carried  with  them,  bore 
it  before  them  into  the  wilderness  like  the  Ark  of 
the  Covenant.  But  nobody  wanted  to  be  unlawful. 
There  was  no  temptation  to  be  so.  Envy,  hatred 

45 


The  Emigrant  Trail 

and  malice  and  all  uncharitableness  had  been  left 
behind  in  the  cities.  They  were  a  very  cheerful 
company,  suffering  a  little  from  fatigue,  and  with 
now  and  then  a  faint  brush  of  bad  temper  to  put 
leaven  into  the  dough. 

There  was  a  Biblical  simplicity  in  their  life.  They 
had  gone  back  to  the  era  when  man  was  a  nomad, 
at  night  pitching  his  tent  by  the  water  hole,  and 
sleeping  on  skins  beside  the  fire.  When  the  sun 
rose  over  the  rim  of  the  prairie  the  camp  was  astir. 
When  the  stars  came  out  in  the  deep  blue  night 
they  sat  by  the  cone  of  embers,  not  saying  much,  for 
in  the  open,  spoken  words  lose  their  force  and  the 
human  creature  becomes  a  silent  animal. 

Each  day's  march  was  a  slow,  dogged,  progres 
sion,  broken  by  fierce  work  at  the  fords.  The  dawn 
was  the  beautiful  time  when  the  dew  was  caught 
in  frosted  webs  on  the  grass.  The  wings  of  the 
morning  were  theirs  as  they  rode  over  the  long 
green  swells  where  the  dog  roses  grew  and  the 
leaves  of  the  sage  palpitated  to  silver  like  a  wom 
an's  body  quivering  to  the  brushing  of  a  beloved 
hand.  Sometimes  they  walked,  dipped  into  hollows 
where  the  wattled  huts  of  the  Indians  edged  a  creek, 
noted  the  passage  of  earlier  trains  in  the  cropped 
grass  at  the  spring  mouth  and  the  circles  of  dead 
fires. 

In  the  afternoons  it  grew  hot.  The  train,  delib 
erate  and  determined  as  a  tortoise,  moved  through 
a  shimmer  of  light.  The  drone  of  insect  voices  rose 
in  a  sleepy  chorus  and  the  men  drowsed  in  the  wag- 


The  Prairie 

ons.  Even  the  buoyant  life  of  the  young  girl 
seemed  to  feel  the  stupefying  weight  of  the  prairie's 
deep  repose.  She  rode  at  a  foot  pace,  her  hat  hang 
ing  by  its  strings  to  the  pommel,  her  hair  pushed 
back  from  her  beaded  forehead,  not  bothering  about 
her  curls  now. 

Then  came  the  wild  blaze  of  the  sunset  and  the 
pitching  of  the  camp,  and  after  supper  the  rest  by 
the  fire  with  pipe  smoke  in  the  air,  and  overhead 
the  blossoming  of  the  stars. 

They  were  wonderful  stars,  troops  and  troops  of 
them,  dust  of  myriad,  unnumbered  worlds,  and  the 
white  lights  of  great,  bold  planets  staring  at  ours. 
David  wondered  what  it  looked  like  from  up  there. 
Was  it  as  large,  or  were  we  just  a  tiny,  twinkling 
point  too?  From  city  streets  the  stars  had  always 
chilled  him  by  their  awful  suggestion  of  worlds  be 
yond  worlds  circling  through  gulfs  of  space.  But 
here  in  the  primordial  solitudes,  under  the  solemn 
cope  of  the  sky,  the  thought  lost  its  terror.  He 
seemed  in  harmony  with  the  universe,  part  of  it  as 
was  each  speck  of  star  dust.  Without  question  or 
understanding  he  felt  secure,  convinced  of  his  one 
ness  with  the  great  design,  cradled  in  its  infinite 
care. 

One  evening  while  thus  dreaming  he  caught  Su 
san's  eye  full  of  curious  interest  like  a  watching 
child's. 

"  What  are  you  thinking  of  ?  "  she  asked. 

"The  stars,"  he  answered.  "They  used  to 
frighten  me." 

47 


The  Emigrant  Trail 

She  looked  from  him  to  the  firmament  as  if  to 
read  a  reason  for  his  fear : 

"Frighten  you?    Why?" 

"  There  were  so  many  of  them,  thousands  and 
millions,  wandering  about  up  there.  It  was  so 
awful  to  think  of  them,  how  they'd  been  swinging 
round  forever  and  would  keep  on  forever.  And 
maybe  there  were  people  on  some  of  them,  and  what 
it  all  was  for." 

She  continued  to  look  up  and  then  said  indiffer 
ently  : 

"  It  doesn't  seem  to  me  to  matter  much." 

"  It  used  to  make  me  feel  that  nothing  was  any 
use.  As  if  I  was  just  a  grain  of  dust." 

Her  eyes  came  slowly  down  and  rested  on  him 
in  a  musing  gaze. 

"  A  grain  of  dust.  I  never  felt  that  way.  I 
shouldn't  think  you'd  like  it,  but  I  don't  see  why 
you  were  afraid." 

David  felt  uncomfortable.  She  was  so  exceed 
ingly  practical  and  direct  that  he  had  an  unpleasant 
feeling  she  would  set  him  down  as  a  coward,  who 
went  about  under  the  fear  that  a  meteor  might 
fall  on  him  and  strike  him  dead.  He  tried  to 
explain: 

"  Not  afraid  actually,  just  sort  of  frozen  by  the 
idea  of  it  all.  It's  so — immense,  so — so  crushing 
and  terrible." 

Her  gaze  continued,  a  questioning  quality  enter 
ing  it.  This  gained  in  force  by  a  slight  tilting  of 
her  head  to  one  side.  David  began  to  fear  her  next 

48 


The  Prairie 

question.  It  might  show  that  she  regarded  him  not 
only  as  a  coward  but  also  as  a  fool. 

"  Perhaps  you  don't  understand,"  he  hazarded 
timidly. 

"  I  don't  think  I  do,"  she  answered,  then  dropped 
her  eyes  and  added  after  a  moment  of  pondering, 
"  I  can't  remember  ever  being  really  afraid  of  any 
thing." 

Had  it  been  daylight  she  would  have  noticed 
that  the  young  man  colored.  He  thought  guiltily 
of  certain  haunting  fears  of  his  childhood,  ghosts 
in  the  attic,  a  banshee  of  which  he  had  once  heard 
a  fearsome  story,  a  cow  that  had  chased  him  on  the 
farm.  She  unconsciously  assisted  him  from  this 
slough  of  shame  by  saying  suddenly : 

"  Oh,  yes,  I  can.  I  remember  now.  I'm  afraid 
of  mad  dogs." 

It  was  not  very  comforting  for,  after  all,  every 
body  was  afraid  of  mad  dogs. 

"  And  there  was  a  reason  for  that,"  she  went  on. 
"  I  was  frightened  by  a  mad  dog  when  I  was  a 
little  girl  eight  years  old.  I  was  going  out  to  spend 
some  of  my  allowance.  I  got  twenty  cents  a 
month  and  I  had  it  all  in  pennies.  And  suddenly 
there  was  a  great  commotion  in  the  street,  every 
body  running  and  screaming  and  rushing  into  door 
ways.  I  didn't  know  what  was  the  matter  but  I 
was  startled  and  dropped  my  pennies.  And  just  as 
I  stooped  to  pick  them  up  I  saw  the  dog  coming 
toward  me,  tearing,  with  its  tongue  hanging  out. 
And,  would  you  believe  it,  I  gathered  up  all  those 

49 


The  Emigrant  Trail 

pennies  before  I  ran  and  just  had  time  to  scramble 
over  a  fence." 

It  was  impossible  not  to  laugh,  especially  with 
her  laughter  leading,  her  eyes  narrowed  to  cracks 
through  which  light  and  humor  sparkled  at  him. 

He  was  beginning  to  know  Miss  Gillespie — 
"  Miss  Susan  "  he  called  her — very  well.  It  was 
just  like  his  dream,  riding  beside  her  every  day, 
and  growing  more  friendly,  the  spell  of  her  youth, 
and  her  dark  bloom,  and  her  attentive  eyes — for 
she  was  an  admirable  listener  if  her  answers  some 
times  lacked  point — drawing  from  him  secret 
thoughts  and  hopes  and  aspirations  he  had  never 
dared  to  tell  before.  If  she  did  not  understand 
him  she  did  not  laugh  at  him,  which  was  enough 
for  David  with  the  sleepy  whisperings  of  the  prairie 
around  him,  and  new,  strange  matter  stirring  in  his 
heart  and  making  him  bold. 

There  was  only  one  thing  about  her  that  was  dis 
appointing.  He  did  not  admit  it  to  himself  but  it 
kept  falling  on  their  interviews  with  a  depressive 
effect.  To  the  call  of  beauty  she  remained  unmoved. 
If  he  drew  up  his  horse  to  gaze  on  the  wonders  of 
the  sunset  the  waiting  made  her  impatient.  He  had 
noticed  that  heat  and  mosquitoes  would  distract  her 
attention  from  the  hazy  distances  drowsing  in  the 
clear  yellow  of  noon.  The  sky  could  flush  and 
deepen  in  majestic  splendors,  but  if  she  was  busy 
over  the  fire  and  her  skillets  she  never  raised  her 
head  to  look.  And  so  it  was  with  poetry.  She 
did  not  know  and  did  not  care  anything  about  the 

50 


The  Prairie 

fine  frenzies  of  the  masters.  Byron? — wrinkling 
up  her  forehead — yes,  she  thought  she'd  read  some 
thing  in  school.  Shelley  ?— "  The  Ode  to  the  West 
Wind?"  No,  she'd  never  read  that.  What  was 
an  ode  anyway?  Once  he  recited  the  "  Lines  to  an 
Indian  Air,"  his  voice  trembling  a  little,  for  the 
words  were  almost  sacred. 

She  pondered  for  a  space  and  then  said : 

"  What  are  champak  odors?  " 

David  didn't  know.  He  had  never  thought  of 
inquiring. 

"  Isn't  that  odd,"  she  murmured.  "  That  would 
have  been  the  first  thing  I  would  have  wanted  to 
know.  Champak?  I  suppose  it's  some  kind  of  a 
flower — something  like  a  magnolia.  It  has  a  sound 
like  a  magnolia." 

A  lively  imagination  was  evidently  not  one  of 
Miss  Gillespie's  possessions. 

Late  one  afternoon,  riding  some  distance  in  front 
of  the  train,  she  and  David  had  seen  an  Indian 
loping  by  on  his  pony.  It  was  not  an  unusual  sight. 
Many  Indians  had  visited  their  camp  and  at  the 
crossing  of  the  Kaw  they  had  come  upon  an  entire 
village  in  transit  to  the  summer  hunting  grounds. 
But  there  was  something  in  this  lone  figure,  moving 
solitary  through  the  evening  glow,  that  put  him  in 
accord  with  the  landscape's  solemn  beauty,  re 
touched  him  with  his  lost  magnificence.  In  buck 
skins  black  with  filth,  his  blanket  a  tattered  rag,  an 
ancient  rifle  across  his  saddle,  the  undying  pictur- 
esqueness  of  the  red  man  was  his. 


The  Emigrant  Trail 

"  Look,"  said  David,  his  imagination  fired. 
"  Look  at  that  Indian." 

The  savage  saw  them  and  turned  a  face  of  melan 
choly  dignity  upon  them,  giving  forth  a  deep  "  How, 
How." 

"  He's  a  very  dirty  Indian,"  said  Susan,  sweeping 
him  with  a  glance  of  disfavor. 

David  did  not  hear  her.  He  looked  back  to 
watch  the  lonely  figure  as  it  rode  away  over  the 
swells.  It  seemed  to  him  to  be  riding  into  the  past, 
the  lordly  past,  when  the  red  man  owned  the  land 
and  the  fruits  thereof. 

"  Look  at  him  as  he  rides  away,"  he  said.  "  Can't 
you  seem  to  see  him  coming  home  from  a  battle 
with  his  face  streaked  with  vermilion  and  his  war 
bonnet  on  ?  He'd  be  solemn  and  grand  with  the  wet 
scalps  dripping  at  his  belt.  When  they  saw  him 
coming  his  squaws  would  come  out  in  front  of  the 
lodges  and  begin  to  sing  the  war  chant." 

"  Squaws !  "  in  a  tone  of  disgust.  "  That's  as 
bad  as  the  Mormons." 

The  muse  had  possession  of  David  and  a  regard 
for  monogamy  was  not  sufficient  to  stay  his  noble 
rage. 

"And  think  how  he  felt!  All  this  was  his,  the 
pale  face  hadn't  come.  He'd  fought  his  enemies 
for  it  and  driven  them  back.  In  the  cool  of  the 
evening  when  he  was  riding  home  he  could  look  out 
for  miles  and  miles,  clear  to  the  horizon,  and  know 
he  was  the  King  of  it  all.  Just  think  what  it  was 
to  feel  like  that!  And  far  away  he  could  see  the 

52 


The  Prairie 

smoke  of  his  village  and  know  that  they  were  wait 
ing  for  the  return  of  the  chief." 

"  Chief!  "  with  even  greater  emphasis,  "  that  poor 
dirty  creature  a  chief!" 

The  muse  relinquished  her  hold.  The  young 
man  explained,  not  with  impatience,  but  as  one 
mortified  by  a  betrayal  into  foolish  enthusiasm : 

"  I  didn't  mean  that  he  was  a  chief.  I  was  just 
imagining." 

"  Oh,"  with  the  falling  inflexion  of  comprehen 
sion.  "You  often  imagine,  don't  you?  Let's  ride 
on  to  where  the  road  goes  down  into  that  hollow." 

They  rode  on  in  silence,  both  slightly  chagrined, 
for  if  David  found  it  trying  to  have  his  fine  flights 
checked,  Susan  was  annoyed  when  she  said  things 
that  made  him  wear  a  look  of  forbearing  patience. 
She  may  not  have  had  much  imagination,  but  she 
had  a  very  observing  eye,  and  could  have  startled 
not  only  David,  but  her  father  by  the  shrewdness 
with  which  she  read  faces. 

The  road  sloped  to  a  hollow  where  the  mottled 
trunks  of  cotton  woods  stood  in  a  group  round  the 
dimpling  face  of  a  spring.  With  well-moistened 
roots  the  grass  grew  long  and  rich.  Here  was  the 
place  for  the  night's  camp.  They  would  wait  till 
the  train  came  up.  And  even  as  they  rested  on 
this  comfortable  thought  they  saw  between  the 
leaves  the  canvas  top  of  a  wagon. 

The  meeting  of  trains  was  one  of  the  excitements 
of  life  on  the  Emigrant  Trail.  Sometimes  they 
were  acquaintances  made  in  the  wet  days  at  Inde- 

53 


The  Emigrant  Trail 

pendence,  sometimes  strangers  who  had  come  by 
way  of  St.  Joseph.  Then  the  encountering  parties 
eyed  one  another  with  candid  curiosity  and  from 
each  came  the  greeting  of  the  plains,  "  Be  you  for 
Oregon  or  California?" 

The  present  party  was  for  Oregon  from  Mis 
souri,  six  weeks  on  the  road.  They  wrere  a  family, 
traveling  alone,  having  dropped  out  of  the  com 
pany  with  which  they  had  started.  The  man,  a 
gaunt  and  grizzled  creature,  with  long  hair  and 
ragged  beard,  was  unyoking  his  oxen,  while  the 
woman  bent  over  the  fire  which  crackled  beneath 
her  hands.  She  was  as  lean  as  he,  shapeless,  saf 
fron-skinned  and  wrinkled,  but  evidently  younger 
than  she  looked.  The  brood  of  tow-headed  chil 
dren  round  her  ran  from  a  girl  of  fourteen  to  a 
baby,  just  toddling,  a  fat,  solemn-eyed  cherub,  al 
most  naked,  with  a  golden  fluff  of  hair. 

At  sight  of  him  Susan  drew  up,  the  unthinking 
serenity  of  her  face  suddenly  concentrated  into  a 
hunger  of  admiration,  a  look  which  changed  her, 
focused  her  careless  happiness  into  a  pointed  de 
light. 

"  Look  at  the  baby/'  she  said  quickly,  "  a  lovely 
fat  baby  with  curls,"  then  slid  off  her  horse  and 
went  toward  them. 

The  woman  drew  back  staring.  The  children 
ran  to  her,  frightened  as  young  rabbits,  and  hid 
behind  her  skirts.  Only  the  baby,  grave  and  un- 
alarmed,  stood  his  ground  and  Susan  snatched  him 
up.  Then  the  mother  smiled,  gratified  and  reas- 

54 


The  Prairie 

sured.  She  had  no  upper  front  teeth,  and  the  wide 
toothless  grin  gave  her  a  look  of  old  age  that  had 
in  it  a  curious  suggestion  of  debasement. 

David  stood  by  his  horse,  making  no  move  to 
come  forward.  The  party  repelled  him.  They 
were  not  only  uncouth  and  uncomely,  but  they  were 
dirty.  Dirt  on  an  Indian  was,  so  to  speak,  dirt  in 
its  place — but  unwashed  women  and  children — ! 
His  gorge  rose  at  it.  And  Susan,  always  dainty  as 
a  pink,  seemed  entirely  indifferent  to  it.  The  chil 
dren,  with  unkempt  hair  and  legs  caked  in  mud, 
crowded  about  her,  and  as  she  held  the  baby 
against  her  chest,  her  glance  dwelt  on  the  woman's 
face,  with  no  more  consciousness  of  its  ugliness 
than  when  she  looked  over  the  prairie  there  was 
consciousness  of  Nature's  supreme  perfection. 

On  the  way  back  to  camp  he  asked  her  about  it. 
Why,  if  she  objected  to  the  Indian's  dirt,  had  she 
been  oblivious  to  that  of  the  women  and  the  chil 
dren?  He  put  it  judicially,  with  impersonal  clear 
ness  as  became  a  lawyer.  She  looked  puzzled,  then 
laughed,  her  fresh,  unusual  laugh : 

"  I'm  sure  I  don't  know.  I  don't  know  why  I  do 
everything  or  why  I  like  this  thing  and  don't  like 
that.  I  don't  always  have  a  reason,  or  if  I  do  I 
don't  stop  to  think  what  it  is.  I  just  do  things  be 
cause  I  want  to  and  feel  them  because  I  can't  help 
it.  I  like  children  and  so  I  wanted  to  talk  to  them 
and  hear  about  them  from  their  mother." 

"  But  would  your  liking  for  them  make  you 
blind  to  such  a  thing  as  dirt  ?  " 

55 


The  Emigrant  Trail 

"  I  don't  know.  Maybe  it  would.  When  you're 
interested  in  anything  or  anybody  small  things 
don't  matter." 

"  Small  things !     Those  children  were  a  sight !  " 

"  Yes,  poor  little  brats !  No  one  had  washed  the 
baby  for  weeks.  The  woman  said  she  was  too  tired 
to  bother  and  it  wouldn't  bathe  in  the  creeks  with 
the  other  children,  so  they  let  it  go.  If  we  kept 
near  them  I  could  wash  it  for  her.  I  could  borrow 
it  and  wash  it  every  morning.  But  there's  no  use 
thinking  about  it  as  we'll  pass  them  to-morrow. 
Wasn't  it  a  darling  with  little  golden  rings  of  hair 
and  eyes  like  pieces  of  blue  glass  ?  " 

She  sighed,  relinquishing  the  thought  of  the 
baby's  morning  bath  with  pensive  regret.  David 
could  not  understand  it,  but  decided  as  Susan  felt 
that  way  it  must  be  the  right  way  for  a  woman  to 
feel.  He  was  falling  in  love,  but  he  was  certainly 
not  falling  in  love — as  students  of  a  later  date  have 
put  it — with  "  a  projection  of  his  own  personality." 


CHAPTER   VI 

THEY  had  passed  the  Kaw  River  and  were  now 
bearing  on  toward  the  Vermilion.  Beyond  that 
would  be  the  Big  and  then  the  Little  Blue  and  soon 
after  the  Platte  where  "  The  Great  Medicine  way 
of  the  Pale  Face  "  bent  straight  to  the  westward. 
The  country  continued  the  same  and  over  its  suave 
undulations  the  long  trail  wound,  sinking  to  the 
hollows,  threading  clumps  of  cotton-wood  and 
and  alder,  lying  white  along  the  spine  of  bolder 
ridges. 

Each  day  they  grew  more  accustomed  to  their 
gypsy  life.  The  prairie  had  begun  to  absorb  them, 
cut  them  off. from  the  influences  of  the  old  setting, 
break  them  to  its  will.  They  were  going  back  over 
the  footsteps  of  the  race,  returning  to  aboriginal 
conditions,  with  their  backs  to  the  social  life  of 
communities  and  their  faces  to  the  wild.  Inde 
pendence  seemed  a  long  way  behind,  California  so 
remote  that  it  was  like  thinking  of  Heaven  when 
one  was  on  earth,  well  fed  and  well  faring.  Their 
immediate  surroundings  began  to  make  their  world, 
they  subsided  into  the  encompassing  immensity,  un 
consciously  eliminating  thoughts,  words,  habits, 
that  did  not  harmonize  with  its  uncomplicated  de 
sign. 

57 


The  Emigrant  Trail 

On  Sundays  they  halted  and  "  lay  off  "  all  day. 
This  was  Dr.  Gillespie's  wish.  He  had  told  the 
young  men  at  the  start  and  they  had  agreed.  It 
would  be  a  good  thing  to  have  a  day  off  for  wash 
ing  and  general  "  redding  up."  But  the  doctor  had 
other  intentions.  In  his  own  words,  he  "  kept  the 
Sabbath/'  and  each  Sunday  morning  read  the  ser 
vice  of  the  Episcopal  Church.  Early  in  their 
acquaintance  David  had  discovered  that  his  new 
friend  was  religious;  "a  God-fearing  man"  was 
the  term  the  doctor  had  used  to  describe  himself. 
David,  who  had  only  seen  the  hysterical  fanaticism 
of  frontier  revivals  now  for  the  first  time  encoun 
tered  the  sincere,  unquestioning  piety  of  a  spiritual 
nature.  The  doctor's  God  was  an  all-pervading 
presence,  who  went  before  him  as  pillar  of  fire  or 
cloud.  Once  speaking  to  the  young  man  of  the  se 
curity  of  his  belief  in  the  Divine  protection,  he  had 
quoted  a  line  which  recurred  to  David  over  and  over 
— in  the  freshness  of  the  morning,  in  the  hot  hush 
of  midday,  and  in  the  night  when  the  stars  were 
out :  "  Behold,  He  that  keepeth  Israel  shall  neither 
slumber  nor  sleep." 

Overcome  by  shyness  the  young  men  had  stayed 
away  from  the  fir§t  Sunday's  service.  David  had 
gone  hunting,  feeling  that  to  sit  near  by  and  not 
attend  would  offer  a  slight  to  the  doctor.  No  such 
scruples  restrained  Leff,  who  squatted  on  his  heels 
at  the  edge  of  the  creek,  washing  his  linen  and  lis 
tening  over  his  shoulder.  By  the  second  Sunday 
they  had  mastered  their  bashfulness  and  both  came 

58 


The  Prairie 

shuffling  their  hats  in  awkward  hands  and  sitting 
side  by  side  on  a  log.  Leff,  who  had  never  been  to 
church  in  his  life,  was  inclined  to  treat  the  occasion 
as  one  for  furtive  amusement,  at  intervals  casting 
a  sidelong  look  at  his  companion,  which,  on  en 
couragement,  would  have  developed  into  a  wink. 
David  had  no  desire  to  exchange  glances  of  derisive 
comment.  He  was  profoundly  moved.  The  sono 
rous  words,  the  solemn  appeal  for  strength  under 
temptation,  the  pleading  for  mercy  with  that  stern, 
avenging  presence  who  had  said,  "  I,  the  Lord  thy 
God  am  a  jealous  God,"  awed  him,  touched  the 
same  chord  that  Nature  touched  and  caused  an  ex 
altation  less  exquisite  but  more  inspiring. 

The  light  fell  flickering  through  the  leaves  of  the 
cotton-woods  on  the  doctor's  gray  head.  He  looked 
up  from  his  book,  for  he  knew  the  words  by  heart, 
and  his  quiet  eyes  dwelt  on  the  distance  swimming 
in  morning  light.  His  friend,  the  old  servant, 
stood  behind  him,  a  picturesque  figure  in  fringed 
buckskin  shirt  and  moccasined  feet.  He  held  his 
battered  hat  in  his  hand,  and  his  head  with  its  spare 
locks  of  grizzled  hair  was  reverently  bowed.  He 
neither  spoke  nor  moved.  It  was  Susan's  voice 
who  repeated  the  creed  and  breathed  out  a  low 
"  We  beseech  thee  to  hear  us,  Good  Lord." 

The  tents  and  the  wagons  were  behind  her  and 
back  of  them  the  long  green  splendors  of  the 
prairie.  Flecks  of  sun  danced  over  her  figure,  shot 
back  and  forth  from  her  skirt  to  her  hair  as  whiffs 
of  wind  caught  the  upper  branches  of  the  cotton 

59 


The  Emigrant  Trail 

woods.  She  had  been  sitting  on  the  mess  chest, 
but  when  the  reading  of  the  Litany  began  she 
slipped  to  her  knees,  and  with  head  inclined  an 
swered  the  responses,  her  hands  lightly  clasped 
resting  against  her  breast. 

David,  who  had  been  looking  at  her,  dropped  his 
eyes  as  from  a  sight  no  man  should  see.  To  admire 
her  at  this  moment,  shut  away  in  the  sanctuary  of 
holy  thoughts,  was  a  sacrilege.  Men  and  their  pas 
sions  should  stand  outside  in  that  sacred  hour  when 
a  woman  is  at  prayer.  Leff  had  no  such  high 
fancies.  He  only  knew  the  sight  of  Susan  made 
him  dumb  and  drove  away  all  the  wits  he  had. 
Now  she  looked  so  aloof,  so  far  removed  from  all 
accustomed  things,  that  the  sense  of  her  remoteness 
added  gloom  to  his  embarrassment.  He  twisted  a 
blade  of  grass  in  his  freckled  hands  and  wished 
that  the  service  would  soon  end. 

The  cotton-wood  leaves  made  a  light,  dry  patter 
ing  as  if  rain  drops  were  falling.  From  the  pick 
eted  animals,  looping  their  trail  ropes  over  the 
grass,  came  a  sound  of  low,  continuous  cropping. 
The  hum  of  insects  swelled  and  sank,  full  of  sud 
den  life,  then  drowsily  dying  away  as  though  the 
spurt  of  energy  had  faded  in  the  hour's  discourag 
ing  languor.  The  doctor's  voice  detached  itself 
from  this  pastoral  chorus  intoning  the  laws  that 
God  gave  Moses  when  he  was  conducting  a  stiff- 
necked  and  rebellious  people  through  a  wilderness : 

'  Thou  shalt  do  no  murder. 

'  Thou  shalt  not  commit  adultery. 
60 


The  Prairie 

"  Thou  shalt  not  steal." 

And  to  each  command  Susan's  was  the  only 
voice  that  answered,  falling  sweet  and  delicately 
clear  on  the  silence : 

"  Lord  have  mercy  upon  us  and  incline  our 
hearts  to  keep  this  law." 

Susan  praying  for  power  to  resist  such  scarlet 
sins!  It  was  fantastic  and  David  wished  he  dared 
join  his  voice  to  hers  and  not  let  her  kneel  there 
alone  as  if  hers  was  the  only  soul  that  needed 
strengthening.  Susan,  the  young,  the  innocent- 
eyed,  the  pure. 

He  had  come  again  the  next  Sunday — Leff  went 
hunting  that  morning — and  felt  that  some  day,  not 
so  far  distant,  he  would  dare  to  kneel  too  and  re 
spond.  He  thought  of  it  when  alone,  another  port 
that  his  dreams  were  taking  him  to — his  voice  and 
Susan's,  the  bass  and  the  treble,  strength  and  sweet 
ness,  symbol  of  the  male  and  the  female,  united  in 
one  harmonious  strain  that  would  stream  upward 
to  the  throne  of  the  God  who,  watching  over  them, 
neither  slumbered  nor  slept. 

It  was  on  the  afternoon  of  this  Sunday,  that 
David  started  out  to  walk  to  an  Indian  village,  of 
which  a  passing  emigrant  had  told  him,  lying  in  a 
hollow  a  mile  to  the  westward.  He  left  the  camp 
sunk  in  the  somnolence  of  its  seventh-day  rest, 
Susan  not  to  be  seen  anywhere,  Leff  asleep  under 
the  wagon,  the  doctor  writing  his  diary  in  the  shade 
of  the  cotton-woods,  and  Daddy  John  lying  on  the 
grass  among  the  whiteness  of  the  week's  wash. 

61 


The  Emigrant  Trail 

The  hour  was  hot  and  breathless,  the  middle  dis 
tance  quivering  through  a  heat  haze,  and  the  re 
moter  reaches  of  the  prairie  an  opalescent  blur. 

The  Indian  village  was  deserted  and  he  wan 
dered  through  its  scattered  lodges  of  saplings  wat 
tled  with  the  peeled  bark  of  willows.  The  Indians 
had  not  long  departed.  The  ash  of  their  fires  was 
still  warm,  tufts  of  buffalo  hair  and  bright  scraps 
of  calico  were  caught  on  the  bushes,  yet  it  already 
had  an  air  of  desolation,  the  bleakness  of  the  hu 
man  habitation  when  the  dweller  has  crossed  the 
threshold  and  gone. 

Shadows  were  filling  the  hollow  like  a  thin  cold 
wine  rising  on  the  edges  of  a  cup,  when  he  left  it 
and  gained  the  upper  levels.  Doubtful  of  his 
course  he  stood  for  a  moment  looking  about,  con 
scious  of  a  curious  change  in  the  prospect,  a  deep 
ening  of  its  colors,  a  stillness  no  longer  dreamy, 
but  heavy  with  suspense.  The  sky  was  sapphire 
clear,  but  on  the  western  horizon  a  rampart  of  cloud 
edged  up,  gray  and  ominous,  against  the  blue.  As 
he  looked  it  mounted,  unrolled  and  expanded, 
swelling  into  forms  of  monstrous  aggression.  A 
faint  air,  fresh  and  damp,  passed  across  the  grass, 
and  the  clouds  swept,  like  smoke  from  a  world  on 
fire,  over  the  sun. 

With  the  sudden  darkening,  dread  fell  on  the  face 
of  the  land.  It  came  first  in  a  hush,  like  a  holding 
of  the  breath,  attentive,  listening,  expectant.  Then 
this  broke  and  a  quiver,  the  goose-flesh  thrill  of 
fear,  stirred  across  the  long  ridges.  The  small, 

62 


The  Prairie 

close  growing  leafage  cowered,  a  frightened  trem 
bling  seized  the  trees.  David  saw  the  sweep  of  the 
landscape  growing  black  under  the  blackness  above. 
He  began  to  run,  the  sky  sinking  lower  like  a  lid 
shutting  down  on  the  earth.  He  thought  that  it 
was  hard  to  get  it  on  right,  for  in  front  of  him  a 
line  of  blue  still  shone  over  which  the  lid  had  not 
yet  been  pressed  down.  The  ground  was  pale  with 
the  whitened  terror  of  upturned  leaves,  the  high 
branches  of  the  cotton-woods  whipping  back  and 
forth  in  wild  agitation.  He  felt  the  first  large 
drops,  far  apart,  falling  with  a  reluctant  splash, 
and  he  ran,  a  tiny  figure  in  the  tragic  and  tre 
mendous  scene. 

When  he  reached  the  camp  the  rush  of  the  rain 
had  begun.  Through  a  network  of  boughs  he 
caught  the  red  eye  of  the  fire  and  beyond  had  a 
vision  of  stampeding  mules  with  the  men  in  pur 
suit.  Then  crashing  through  the  bushes  he  saw 
why  the  fire  still  burned — Susan  was  holding  an 
umbrella  over  it,  the  rain  spitting  in  the  hot  ash,  a 
pan  of  biscuits  balanced  in  the  middle.  Behind  her 
the  tent,  one  side  concave,  the  other  bellying  out 
from  restraining  pegs,  leaped  and  jerked  at  its 
moorings.  A  rumble  of  thunder  rolled  across  the 
sky  and  the  rain  came  at  them  in  a  slanting  wall. 

:<  We're  going  to  have  biscuits  for  supper  if  the 
skies  fall,"  Susan  shouted  at  him,  and  he  had  a 
glimpse  of  her  face,  touched  with  firelight,  laugh 
ing  under  the  roof  of  the  umbrella. 

A  furious  burst  of  wind  cut  off  his  answer,  the 

63 


The  Emigrant  Trail 

blue  glare  of  lightning  suddenly  drenched  them, 
and  the  crackling  of  thunder  tore  a  path  across  the 
sky.  The  umbrella  was  wrenched  from  Susan  and 
her  wail  as  the  biscuits  fell  pierced  the  tumult  with 
the  thin,  futile  note  of  human  dole.  He  had  no 
time  to  help  her,  for  the  tent  with  an  exultant 
wrench  tore  itself  free  on  one  side,  a  canvas  wing 
boisterously  leaping,  while  the  water  dived  in  at  the 
blankets.  As  he  sped  to  its  rescue  he  had  an  im 
pression  of  the  umbrella,  handle  up,  filling  with 
water  like  a  large  black  bowl  and  Susan  groveling 
in  the  ashes  for  her  biscuits. 

"  The  tent's  going,"  he  cried  back ;  "  all  your 
things  will  be  soaked.  Never  mind  the  supper,  come 
and  help  me."  And  it  seemed  in  this  moment  of 
tumult,  that  Susan  ceased  to  be  a  woman  to  be 
cared  for  and  protected  and  became  his  equal,  fight 
ing  with  him  against  the  forces  of  the  primitive 
world.  The  traditions  of  her  helplessness  were 
stripped  from  her,  and  he  called  her  to  his  aid  as 
the  cave  man  called  his  woman  when  the  storm  fell 
on  their  bivouac. 

They  seized  on  the  leaping  canvas,  he  feeling  in 
the  water  for  the  tent  pegs,  she  snatching  at  the 
ropes.  He  tried  to  direct  her,  shouting  orders, 
which  were  beaten  down  in  the  stuttering  explosion 
of  the  thunder.  Once  a  furious  gust  sent  her 
against  him.  The  wind  wrapped  her  damp  skirts 
round  him  and  he  felt  her  body  soft  and  pliable. 
The  grasp  of  her  hands  was  tight  on  his  arms  and 
close  to  his  ear  he  heard  her  laughing.  For  a  sec- 


The  Prairie 

ond  the  quick  pulse  of  the  lightning  showed  her  to 
him,  her  hair  glued  to  her  cheeks,  her  wet  bodice 
like  a  thin  web  molding  her  shoulders,  and  as  the 
darkness  shut  her  out  he  again  heard  her  laughter 
broken  by  panting  breaths. 

"  Isn't  it  glorious,"  she  cried,  struggling  away 
from  him.  "  That  nearly  took  me  off  my  feet.  My 
skirts  are  all  twined  round  you." 

They  got  the  tent  down,  writhing  and  leaping 
like  a  live  thing  frantic  to  escape.  Conquered,  a 
soaked  mass  on  the  ground,  he  pulled  the  bedding 
from  beneath  it  and  she  grasped  the  blankets  in  her 
arms  and  ran  for  the  wagon.  She  went  against  the 
rain,  leaning  forward  on  it,  her  skirts  torn  back 
and  whipped  up  by  the  wind  into  curling  eddies. 
Her  head,  the  hair  pressed  flat  to  it,  was  sleek  and 
wet  as  a  seal's,  and  as  she  ran  she  turned  and  looked 
at  him  over  her  shoulder,  a  wild,  radiant  look  that 
he  never  forgot. 

They  sat  in  the  wagon  and  watched  the  storm. 
Soaked  and  tired  they  curled  up  by  the  rear  open 
ing  while  the  rain  threshed  against  the  canvas  and 
driblets  of  water  came  running  down  the  sides. 
The  noise  made  talking  difficult  and  they  drew 
close  together  exclaiming  as  the  livid  lightning  sat 
urated  the  scene,  and  holding  their  breaths  when 
the  thunder  broke  and  split  its  furious  way  over 
their  heads.  They  watched  it,  conscious  each  in  the 
other  of  an  increased  comforting  friendliness,  a 
gracious  reassurance  where  Nature's  transports 
made  man  seem  so  small. 

65 


CHAPTER   VII 

THE  Vermilion  was  swollen.  With  a  bluff  on 
one  side  and  a  wide  bottom  on  the  other  it  ran  a 
prosperous,  busy  stream,  brown  and  ripple-ridged. 
The  trail  lay  like  a  line  of  tape  along  the  high  land, 
then  down  the  slope,  and  across  the  bottom  to  the 
river.  Here  it  seemed  to  slip  under  the  current  and 
come  up  on  the  other  side  where  it  climbed  a  steep 
bank,  and  thence  went  on,  thin  and  pale,  rising  and 
dropping  to  the  ridges  till  the  tape  became  a  thread. 

They  had  been  waiting  a  day  for  the  water  to 
fall.  Camped  in  the  bottom  under  a  scattering  of 
trees  with  the  animals  grazing  on  the  juicy  river 
grass  and  the  song  of  the  stream  in  their  ears,  it 
had  been  a  welcome  break  in  the  monotony  of  the 
march.  There  was  always  a  choice  of  occupation 
in  these  breathing  spells.  On  the  first  afternoon 
everybody  had  sat  on  the  grass  at  the  tent  doors 
mending.  To-day  the  men  had  revolted  and  wan 
dered  off  but  Susan  continued  industriously  intent 
over  patches  and  darns.  She  sat  on  a  log,  her 
spools  and  scissors  beside  her,  billows  of  homespun 
and  calico  about  her  feet. 

As  she  sewed  she  sung  in  a  low  undervoice,  not 
looking  up.  Beyond  her  in  the  shade  Daddy  John 
mended  a  piece  of  harness.  Daddy  John  was  not 

66 


The  Prairie 

a  garrulous  person  and  when  she  paused  in  her  sew 
ing  to  speak  to  him,  he  answered  with  a  monosyl 
lable.  It  was  one  of  the  old  man's  self-appointed 
duties  to  watch  over  her  when  the  others  were 
absent.  If  he  did  not  talk  much  to  his  "  Missy  " 
he  kept  a  vigilant  eye  upon  her,  and  to-day  he 
squatted  in  the  shade  beside  her  because  the  doctor 
and  David  had  gone  after  antelope  and  Leff  was  off 
somewhere  on  an  excursion  of  his  own. 

Susan,  sewing,  her  face  grave  above  her  work, 
was  not  as  pretty  as  Susan  smiling.  She  drew  her 
eyebrows,  thick  and  black,  low  over  her  eyes  with 
her  habitual  concentration  in  the  occupation  of  the 
moment,  and  her  lips,  pressed  together,  pouted,  but 
not  the  disarming  baby  pout  which,  when  she  was 
angry,  made  one  forget  the  sullenness  of  her  brows. 
Her  looks  however,  were  of  that  fortunate  kind 
which  lose  nothing  from  the  open  air  and  large 
backgrounds.  Dress  added  but  little  to  such  at 
tractions  as  she  had.  Fineness  and  elegance  were 
not  hers,  but  her  healthy,  ripe  brownness  fitted  into 
this  sylvan  setting  where  the  city  beauty  would 
have  soon  become  a  pale  and  draggled  thing. 

The  robust  blood  of  her  French  Canadian  fore 
bears  was  quickening  to  the  call  of  the  trail.  Was 
it  the  spirit  of  her  adventurous  ancestors  that  made 
her  feel  a  kinship  with  the  wild,  an  indifference  to 
its  privations,  a  joy  in  its  rude  liberty?  She  was 
thinner,  but  stronger  and  more  vigorous  than  when 
the  train  had  started.  She  talked  less  and  yet  her 
whole  being  seemed  more  vibrantly  alive,  her 


The  Emigrant  Trail 

glance  to  have  gained  the  gleaming  quietness  of 
those  whose  eyes  scan  vague  horizons.  She 
who  had  been  heavy  on  her  feet  now  stepped 
with  a  light  noiselessness,  and  her  body  showed  its 
full  woman's  outlines  straightened  and  lengthened 
to  the  litheness  of  a  boy.  Her  father  noticed  that 
the  Gallic  strain  in  her  seemed  to  be  crowding  out 
the  other.  In  Rochester,  under  city  roofs,  she  had 
been  at  least  half  his.  On  the  trail,  with  the  arch 
of  the  sky  above  and  the  illimitable  earth  around 
her,  she  was  throwing  back  to  her  mother's 
people. 

Susan  herself  had  no  interest  in  these  atavistic 
developments.  She  was  a  healthy,  uncomplicated, 
young  animal,  and  she  was  enjoying  herself  as  she 
had  never  done  before.  Behind  her  the  life  of 
Rochester  stretched  in  a  tranquil  perspective  of  dull 
and  colorless  routine.  Nothing  had  ever  happened. 
From  her  seventh  year  her  father  and  Daddy  John 
had  brought  her  up,  made  her  the  pet  and  plaything 
of  their  lonely  lives,  rejoiced  in  her,  wondered  at 
her,  delighted  in  the  imperious  ways  she  had 
learned  from  their  spoiling.  There  had  been  teach 
ers  to  educate  her,  but  it  was  an  open  secret  that 
they  had  not  taught  her  much.  Susan  did  not  take 
kindly  to  books.  No  one  had  ever  been  able  to 
teach  her  how  to  cipher  and  learning  the  piano  had 
been  a  fruitless  effort  abandoned  in  her  fifteenth 
year.  It  is  only  just  to  her  to  say  that  she  had  her 
little  talents.  She  was  an  excellent  housekeeper, 
and  she  could  cook  certain  dishes  better,  the  doctor 

68 


The  Prairie 

said,  than  the  chefs  in  some  of  the  fine  restaurants 
in  New  York  City. 

But  what  were  the  sober  pleasures  of  housekeep 
ing  and  cooking  beside  the  rough,  deep-living  ex 
hilaration  of  gypsy  life  on  the  plains !  She  looked 
back  pityingly  at  those  days  of  stagnant  peace, 
compared  the  entertainment  to  be  extracted  from 
embroidering  a  petticoat  frill  to  the  exultant  joy  of 
a  ride  in  the  morning  over  the  green  swells.  Who 
would  sip  tea  in  the  close  curtained  primness  of 
the  parlor  when  they  could  crouch  by  the  camp 
fire  and  eat  a  corn  cake  baked  on  the  ashes  or  drink 
brown  coffee  from  a  tin  cup?  And  her  buffalo 
robe  on  the  ground,  the  blanket  tucked  round  her 
shoulder,  the  rustling  of  furtive  animal  life  in  the 
grass  outside  the  tent  wall — was  there  any  com 
parison  between  its  comfort  and  that  of  her  narrow 
white  bed  at  home,  between  the  clean  sheets  of 
which  she  had  snuggled  so  luxuriously  ? 

There  were  other  matters  of  charm  and  interest 
in  the  wilderness,  matters  that  Susan  did  not  speak 
about— hardly  admitted  to  herself,  for  she  was  a 
modest  maid.  She  had  never  yet  had  a  lover;  no 
man  had  ever  kissed  her  or  held  her  hand  longer 
than  a  cool,  impersonal  respect  dictated.  In  Roch 
ester  no  one  had  turned  to  look  at  the  doctor's 
daughter  as  she  walked  by,  for,  in  truth,  there  were 
many  girls  much  prettier  and  more  piquant  than 
Susan  Gillespie.  But,  nevertheless,  she  had  had  her 
dreams  about  the  lover  that  some  day  was  to  come 
and  carry  her  off  under  a  wreath  of  orange  blos- 

69 


The  Emigrant  Trail 

soms  and  a  white  veil.  She  did  not  aspire  to  a 
struggling  hoard  of  suitors,  but  she  thought  it 
would  be  only  fair  and  entirely  within  the  realm  of 
the  possible  if  she  had  two;  most  girls  had  two. 

Now  she  felt  the  secret  elation  that  follows  on 
the  dream  realized.  She  did  not  tell  herself  that 
David  and  LefT  were  in  love  with  her.  She  would 
have  regarded  all  speculations  on  such  a  sacred  sub- 
pect  as  low  and  unmaidenly.  But  the  conscious 
ness  of  it  permeated  her  being  with  a  gratified  sense 
of  her  worth  as  a  woman.  It  made  her  feel  her 
value.  Like  all  girls  of  her  primitive  kind  she 
estimated  herself  not  by  her  own  measure,  but  by 
the  measure  of  a  man's  love  for  her.  Now  that  men 
admired  her  she  felt  that  she  was  taking  her  place 
as  a  unit  of  importance.  Her  sense  of  achievement 
in  this  advent  of  the  desiring  male  was  not  alone 
pleased  vanity,  it  went  back  through  the  ages  to  the 
time  when  woman  won  her  food  and  clothing,  her 
right  to  exist,  through  the  power  of  her  sex,  when 
she  whose  attraction  was  strongest  had  the  best 
corner  by  the  fire,  the  choicest  titbit  from  the  hunt, 
and  the  strongest  man  to  fight  off  rivals  and  keep 
her  for  himself. 

Her  perceptions,  never  before  exercised  on  these 
subjects,  were  singularly  keen.  Neither  of  the  young 
men  had  spoken  a  word  of  love  to  her,  yet  she  in 
tuitively  knew  that  they  were  both  under  her  spell. 
The  young  girl  so  stupid  at  her  books,  who  could 
never  learn  arithmetic  and  found  history  a  bore, 
had  a  deeper  intelligence  in  the  reading  of  the  hu- 

70 


The  Prairie 

man  heart  than  anyone  of  the  party.  More  than 
the  doctor  who  was  a  man  of  education,  more  than 
David  who  thought  so  much  and  loved  to  read, 
more  than  Left  who,  if  his  brain  was  not  sharp, 
might  be  supposed  to  have  accumulated  some  slight 
store  of  experience,  more  than  Daddy  John  who 
was  old  and  had  the  hoar  of  worldly  knowledge 
upon  him.  Compared  to  her  they  were  as  novices 
to  a  nun  who  has  made  an  excursion  into  the  world 
and  taken  a  bite  from  the  apple  Eve  threw  away. 

She  had  no  especial  liking  for  Left.  It  amused 
her  to  torment  him,  to  look  at  him  with  an  artless, 
inquiring  stare  when  he  was  overwhelmed  by  con 
fusion  and  did  not  know  what  to  say.  When  she 
felt  that  he  had  endured  sufficiently  she  would  be 
come  merciful,  drop  her  eyes,  and  end  what  was  to 
her  an  encounter  that  added  a  new  zest  to  her  sense 
of  growing  power. 

With  David  it  was  different.  Here,  too,  she  felt 
her  mastery,  but  the  slave  was  of  another  fiber. 
He  acknowledged  her  rule,  but  he  was  neither 
clumsy  nor  dumb  before  her.  She  respected  his  in 
telligence  and  felt  a  secret  jealousy  of  it,  as  of  a 
part  of  him  which  must  always  be  beyond  her  in 
fluence.  His  devotion  was  a  very  dear  and  gra 
cious  thing  and  she  was  proud  that  he  should  care 
for  her.  Love  had  not  awakened  in  her,  but  some 
times  when  she  was  with  him,  her  admiration  soft 
ened  to  a  warm,  invading  gentleness,  a  sense  of 
weakness  glad  of  itself,  happy  to  acknowledge  his 
greater  strength.  Had  David's  intuitions  been  as 

71 


The  Emigrant  Trail 

true  as  hers  he  would  have  known  when  these  mo 
ments  came  and  spoken  the  words.  But  on  such 
matters  he  had  no  intuitions,  was  a  mere,  unen 
lightened  male  trying  to  win  a  woman  by  standing 
at  a  distance  and  kneeling  in  timid  worship. 

Now  sitting,  sewing  on  the  log,  Susan  heard  a 
step  on  the  gravel,  and  without  looking  up  gave  it 
a  moment's  attention  and  knew  it  was  Left's.  She 
began  to  sing  softly,  with  an  air  of  abstraction. 
The  steps  drew  near  her,  she  noted  that  they  lagged 
as  they  approached,  finally  stopped.  She  gave  her 
work  a  last,  lingering  glance  and  raised  her  eyes 
slowly  as  if  politeness  warred  with  disinclination. 
Leff  was  standing  before  her,  scowling  at  her  as  at 
an  object  of  especial  enmity.  He  carried  a  small 
tin  pail  full  of  wild  strawberries.  She  saw  it  at 
once,  but  forebore  looking  at  it,  keeping  her  eyes 
on  his  face,  up  which  the  red  color  ran. 

"  Oh,  Leff,"  she  said  with  careless  amiability, 
"  so  you've  got  back." 

Leff  grunted  an  agreeing  monosyllable  and 
moved  the  strawberries  to  a  position  where  they  in 
truded  into  the  conversation  like  a  punctuation 
mark  in  the  middle  of  a  sentence.  Her  glance 
dropped  to  the  pail,  and  she  looked  at  it  saying 
nothing,  amused  to  thus  tease  him  and  covertly 
note  his  hopeless  and  impotent  writhings. 

He  thrust  the  pail  almost  against  her  knee  and 
she  was  forced  to  say : 

"  What  fine  strawberries,  a  whole  pail  full.  Can 
I  have  one?  " 

72 


The  Prairie 

He  nodded  and  she  made  a  careful  choice,  giving 
the  pail  a  little  shake  to  stir  its  contents.  Leff  glared 
at  the  top  of  her  head  where  her  hair  was  twisted 
into  a  rough  knot. 

"  Thank  you,"  she  said.  "  I've  found  a  beauty. 
You  must  have  been  all  afternoon  getting  so 
many,"  and  she  put  the  strawberry  in  her  mouth 
and  picked  up  her  sewing  as  though  that  ended  the 
matter. 

Leff  stood  shifting  from  foot  to  foot,  hoping 
that  she  might  extend  a  helping  hand. 

"  The  river's  falling,"  he  said  at  length.  "  It's 
gone  down  two  feet.  We  can  cross  this  even- 
ing." 

"  Then  I  must  hurry  and  finish  my  mending." 

She  evidently  was  not  going  to  extend  so  much 
as  the  tip  of  a  finger.  In  his  bashful  misery  his 
mind  worked  suddenly  and  unexpectedly. 

"  I've  got  to  go  and  get  the  horses,"  he  said,  and, 
setting  the  pail  on  the  log  beside  her,  turned  and 
ran. 

But  Susan  was  prepared  for  this  move.  It  was 
what  she  expected. 

"Oh,  Leff,"  she  called,  lazily.  "Come  back, 
you've  forgotten  your  strawberries." 

And  he  had  to  come  back,  furious  and  helpless, 
he  had  to  come  back.  He  had  not  courage  for  a 
word,  did  not  dare  even  to  meet  her  gaze  lifted 
mildly  to  his.  He  snatched  up  the  pail  and  lurched 
off  and  Susan  returned  to  her  sewing,  smiling  to 
herself. 

73 


The  Emigrant  Trail 

"  He  wanted  you  to  take  the  berries,"  said  Dad 
dy  John,  who  had  been  watching. 

"  Did  he?  "  she  queried  with  the  raised  brows  of 
innocent  surprise.  "  Why  didn't  he  say  so  ?  " 

"  Too  bashful !  " 

"  He  couldn't  expect  me  to  take  them  unless  he 
offered  them." 

"  I  should  think  you'd  have  guessed  it." 

She  laughed  at  this,  dropping  her  sewing  and 
looking  at  the  old  man  with  eyes  almost  shut. 

"  Oh,  Daddy  John,"  she  gurgled.  "  How  clever 
you  are !  " 

An  hour  later  they  began  the  crossing.  The  ford 
of  the  Vermilion  was  one  of  the  most  difficult  be 
tween  the  Kaw  and  the  Platte  Valley.  After 
threading  the  swift,  brown  current,  the  trail  zig 
zagged  up  a  clay  bank,  channeled  into  deep  ruts  by 
the  spring's  fleet  of  prairie  schooners.  It  would  be 
a  hard  pull  to  get  the  doctor's  wagon  up  and  David 
rode  over  with  Bess  and  Ben  to  double  up  with  the 
mules.  It  was  late  afternoon  and  the  bottom  lay 
below  the  sunshine  steeped  in  a  still  transparent 
light,  where  every  tint  had  its  own  pure  value.  The 
air  was  growing  cool  after  a  noon  of  blistering 
heat  and  from  an  unseen  backwater  frogs  had  al 
ready  begun  a  hoarse,  tentative  chanting. 

The  big  wagon  had  already  crossed  when  David 
on  Bess,  with  Ben  at  the  end  of  a  trail  rope,  started 
into  the  stream.  Susan  watched  him  go,  his  tall, 
high-shouldered  figure  astride  the  mare's  broad 
back,  one  arm  flung  outward  with  the  rope  dipping 

74 


The  Prairie 

to  the  current.  As  the  water  rose  round  his  feet, 
he  gave  a  wild,  jubilant  shout  and  went  forward, 
plowing  deeper  with  every  step,  his  cries  swelling 
over  the  river's  low  song. 

Susan,  left  on  the  near  bank  to  wait  till  the  wag 
ons  were  drawn  up,  lifted  herself  into  the  crotch 
of  a  cottonwood  tree.  The  pastoral  simplicity  of 
the  scene,  the  men  and  animals  moving  through  the 
silver-threaded  water  with  the  wagons  waiting  and 
after  the  work  the  camp  to  be  pitched,  exhilarated 
her  with  a  conviction  of  true  living,  of  existence 
flowing  naturally  as  the  stream.  And  for  the  mo 
ment  David  seemed  the  great  figure  in  hers.  With 
a  thrill  at  her  heart  she  watched  him  receding 
through  the  open  wash  of  air  and  water,  shouting 
in  the  jubilance  of  his  manhood.  The  mischievous 
pleasure  of  her  coquetries  was  forgotten,  and  in  a 
rush  of  glad  confidence  she  felt  a  woman's  pride  in 
him.  This  was  the  way  she  should  see  the  man 
who  was  to  win  her,  not  in  stuffy  rooms,  not 
dressed  in  stiff,  ungainly  clothes,  not  saying  un 
meaning  things  to  fill  the  time.  This  tale  of  la 
borious  days  bounded  by  the  fires  of  sunrise  and 
sunset,  this  struggle  with  the  primal  forces  of 
storm  and  flood,  this  passage  across  a  panorama 
unrolling  in  ever  wilder  majesty,  was  the  setting 
for  her  love  idyl.  The  joy  of  her  mounting  spirit 
broke  out  in  an  answering  cry  that  flew  across  the 
river  to  David  like  the  call  of  an  animal  to  its  mate. 

She  watched  them  yoking  on  Bess  and  Ben  and 
men  and  animals  bracing  their  energies  for  the 

75 


The  Emigrant  Trail 

start.  David  drove  the  horses,  walking  beside 
them,  the  reins  held  loose  in  hands  that  made  up 
ward,  urging  gestures  as  the  team  breasted  the 
ascent.  It  was  a  savage  pull.  The  valiant  little 
mules  bent  their  necks,  the  horses  straining,  iron 
muscled,  hoofs  grinding  down  to  the  solid  clay. 
The  first  charge  carried  them  half  way  up,  then 
there  was  a  moment  of  slackened  effort,  a  relaxing, 
recuperative  breath,  and  the  wagon  came  to  a 
standstill.  Leff  ran  for  the  back,  shouting  a  warn 
ing.  The  branch  he  thrust  under  the  wheel  was 
ground  to  splinters  and  the  animals  grew  rigid  in 
their  effort  to  resist  the  backward  drag. 

Leff  gripped  the  wheel,  cursing,  his  hands 
knotted  round  the  spokes,  his  back  taut  and  muscle- 
ridged  under  the  thin  shirt.  The  cracked  voice  of 
Daddy  John  came  from  beyond  the  canvas  hood  and 
David's  urgent  cries  filled  the  air.  The  mules, 
necks  outstretched,  almost  squatting  in  the  agony 
of  their  endeavor,  held  their  ground,  but  could  do 
no  more.  Bess  and  Ben  began  to  plunge  in  a  wel 
ter  of  slapping  harness  as  the  wheels  ground  slowly 
downward. 

Susan  watched,  her  neck  craned,  her  eyes  staring. 
Her  sentimental  thoughts  had  vanished.  She  was 
one  with  the  struggling  men  and  beasts,  lending 
her  vigor  to  theirs.  Her  eyes  were  on  David,  wait 
ing  to  see  him  dominate  them  like  a  general  carry 
ing  his  troops  to  victory.  She  could  see  him,  arms 
outstretched,  haranguing  his  horses  as  if  they  were 
human  beings,  but  not  using  the  whip.  A  burst  of 


The  Prairie 

astonishing    profanity    came    from    Leff    and    she 
heard  him  cry : 

"  Lay  it  on  to  'em,  David.  What's  the  matter 
with  you?  Beat  'em  like  hell." 

The  mule  drivers  used  a  long-lashed  whip  which 
could  raise  a  welt  on  the  thickest  hide.  David  flung 
the  lash  afar  and  brought  it  down  on  Ben's  back. 
The  horse  leaped  as  if  he  had  been  burned,  jerking 
ahead  of  his  mate,  and  rearing  in  a  madness  of 
unaccustomed  pain.  With  a  passionate  gesture 
David  threw  the  whip  down. 

Susan  saw  that  it  was  not  accidental.  She  gave 
a  sound  of  angry  astonishment  and  stood  up  in  the 
crotch  of  the  tree. 

"  David !  "  she  screamed,  but  he  did  not  hear, 
and  then  louder :  "  Daddy  John,  quick,  the  whip, 
he's  dropped  it." 

The  old  man  came  running  round  the  back  of  the 
wagon,  quick  and  eager  as  a  gnome.  He  snatched 
up  the  whip  and  let  the  lash  curl  outward  with  a 
hissing  rush.  It  flashed  like  the  flickering  dart  of 
a  snake's  tongue,  struck,  and  the  horses  sprang  for 
ward.  It  curled  again,  hung  suspended  for  the 
fraction  of  a  moment,  then  licked  along  the  sweat 
ing  flanks,  and  horses  and  mules,  bowed  in  a  su 
preme  effort,  wrenched  the  wagon  upward.  Susan 
slid  from  her  perch,  feeling  a  sudden  apathy,  not 
only  as  from  a  tension  snapped,  but  as  the  result  of 
a  backwash  of  disillusion.  David  was  no  longer 
the  proud  conqueror,  the  driver  of  man  and  brute. 
The  tide  of  pride  had  ebbed. 

77 


The  Emigrant  Trail 

Later,  when  the  camp  was  pitched  and  she  was 
building  the  fire,  he  came  to  offer  her  some  wood 
which  was  scarce  on  this  side  of  the  river.  He 
knelt  to  help  her,  and,  his  face  close  to  hers,  she 
said  in  a  low  voice : 

"  Why  did  you  throw  the  whip  down  ?  " 

He  reddened  consciously  and  looked  quickly  at 
her,  a  look  that  was  apprehensive  as  if  ready  to 
meet  an  accusation. 

"  I  saw  you  do  it,"  she  said,  expecting  a  denial. 

"  Yes,  I  did  it,"  he  answered.  "  I  wasn't  going 
to  say  I  didn't." 

"  Why  did  you  ?  "  she  repeated. 

"  I  can't  beat  a  dumb  brute  when  it's  doing  its 
best,"  he  said,  looking  away  from  her,  shy  and 
ashamed. 

"  But  the  wagon  would  have  gone  down  to  the 
bottom  of  the  hill.  It  was  going." 

"What  would  that  have  mattered?  We  could 
have  taken  some  of  the  things  out  and  carried  them 
up  afterwards.  When  a  horse  does  his  best  for 
you,  what's  the  sense  of  beating  the  life  out  of  him 
when  the  load's  too  heavy.  I  can't  do  that." 

"  Was  that  why  you  threw  it  down  ?  " 

He  nodded. 

:'  You'd  rather  have  carried  the  things  up  ?  " 

"  Yes." 

She  laid  the  sticks  one  on  the  other  without 
replying  and  he  said  with  a  touch  of  pleading  in  his 
tone: 

"  You  understand  that,  don't  you  ?  " 

78 


The  Prairie 

She  answered  quickly: 

"  Oh,  of  course,  perfectly." 

But  nevertheless  she  did  not  quite.  Daddy 
John's  action  was  the  one  she  really  did  understand, 
and  she  even  understood  why  Leff  swore  so  vio 
lently. 


79 


CHAPTER   VIII 

IT  was  Sunday  again  and  they  lay  encamped 
near  the  Little  Blue.  The  country  was  changing, 
the  trees  growing  thin  and  scattered  and  sandy 
areas  were  cropping  up  through  the  trail.  At  night 
they  unfolded  the  maps  and  holding  them  to  the 
firelight  measured  the  distance  to  the  valley  of  the 
Platte.  Once  there  the  first  stage  of  the  journey 
would  be  over.  When  they  started  from  Inde 
pendence  the  Platte  had  shone  to  the  eyes  of  their 
imaginations  as  a  threadlike  streak  almost  as  far 
away  as  California.  Now  they  would  soon  be 
there.  At  sunset  they  stood  on  eminences  and 
pointed  in  its  direction,  let  their  mental  vision  con 
jure  up  Grand  Island  and  sweep  forward  to  the 
buffalo-darkened  plains  and  the  river  sunk  in  its 
league-wide  bottom,  even  peered  still  further  and 
saw  Fort  Laramie,  a  faint,  white  dot  against  the 
cloudy  peaks  of  mountains. 

The  afternoon  was  hot  and  the  camp  drowsed. 
Susan  moving  away  from  it  was  the  one  point  of 
animation  in  the  encircling  quietude.  She  was  not 
in  spirit  with  its  lethargy,  stepping  rapidly  in  a  stir 
ring  of  light  skirts,  her  hat  held  by  one  string,  fan 
ning  back  and  forth  from  her  hanging  hand.  Her 
goal  was  a  spring  hidden  in  a  small  arroyo  that 

80 


The  Prairie 

made  a  twisted  crease  in  the  land's  level  face.  It 
was  a  little  dell  in  which  the  beauty  they  were 
leaving  had  taken  a  last  stand,  decked  the  ground 
with  a  pied  growth  of  flowers,  spread  a  checkered 
roof  of  boughs  against  the  sun.  From  a  shelf  on 
one  side  the  spring  bubbled,  clear  as  glass,  its  wa 
ters  caught  and  held  quivering  in  a  natural  basin 
of  rock. 

As  she  slipped  over  the  margin,  the  scents  im 
prisoned  in  the  sheltered  depths  rose  to  meet  her, 
a  sweet,  cool  tide  of  fragrance  into  which  she  sank. 
After  the  glaring  heat  above  it  was  like  stepping 
into  a  perfumed  bath.  She  lay  by  the  spring,  her 
hands  clasped  behind  her  head,  looking  up  at  the 
trees.  The  segments  of  sky  between  the  boughs 
were  as  blue  as  a  turquoise  and  in  this  thick  intense 
color  the  little  leaves  seemed  as  if  inlaid.  Then  a 
breeze  came  and  the  bits  of  inlaying  shook  loose 
and  trembled  into  silvery  confusion.  Small  secre 
tive  noises  came  from  them  as  if  minute  confidences 
were  passing  from  bough  to  bough,  and  through 
their  murmurous  undertone  the  drip  of  the  spring 
fell  with  a  thin,  musical  tinkle. 

Nature  was  dreaming  and  Susan  dreamed  with 
it.  But  her  dreaming  had  a  certain  definiteness,  a 
distinct  thought  sustained  its  diffused  content.  She 
was  not  self-consciously  thinking  of  her  lovers,  not 
congratulating  herself  on  their  acquirement,  but  the 
consciousness  that  she  had  achieved  them  lay  gra 
ciously  round  her  heart,  gave  the  soft  satisfaction 
to  her  musings  that  comes  to  one  who  has  accom- 

81 


The  Emigrant  Trail 

plished  a  duty.  With  all  modesty  she  felt  the  grati 
fication  of  the  being  who  approaches  his  Destiny. 
She  had  advanced  a  step  in  her  journey  as  a 
woman. 

A  hail  from  the  bank  above  broke  upon  her  rev 
erie,  but  when  she  saw  it  was  David,  she  sat  up 
smiling.  That  he  should  find  out  her  hiding  place 
without  word  or  sign  from  her  was  an  action  right 
and  fitting.  It  was  a  move  in  the  prehistoric  game 
of  flight  and  pursuit,  in  which  they  had  engaged 
without  comprehension  and  with  the  intense  earn 
estness  of  children  at  their  play.  David  dropped 
down  beside  her,  a  spray  of  wild  roses  in  his  hand, 
and  began  at  once  to  chide  her  for  thus  stealing 
away.  Did  she  not  remember  they  were  in  the 
country  of  the  Pawnees,  the  greatest  thieves  on  the 
plains?  It  was  not  safe  to  stray  alone  from  the 
camp. 

Susan  smiled : 

"  The  Pawnees  steal  horses,  but  I  never  heard 
anyone  say  they  stole  girls." 

"  They  steal  anything  they  can  get,"  said  the 
simple  young  man. 

"  Oh,  David," — now  she  was  laughing — "  so 
they  might  steal  me  if  they  couldn't  get  a  horse,  or 
a  blanket,  or  a  side  of  bacon!  Next  time  I  go 
wandering  I'll  take  the  bacon  with  me  and  then  I'll 
be  perfectly  safe." 

"  Your  father  wouldn't  like  it.  I've  heard  him 
tell  you  not  to  go  off  this  way  alone." 

"Well,  who  could  I  take?  I  don't  like  to  ask 
82 


The  Prairie 

father  to  go  out  into  the  sun  and  Daddy  John  was 
asleep,  and  Leff — I  didn't  see  Leff  anywhere." 

"  I  was  there/'  he  said,  dropping  his  eyes. 

"  You  were  under  the  wagon  reading  Byron.  I 
wouldn't  for  the  world  take  you  away  from 
Byron." 

She  looked  at  him  with  a  candid  smile,  her  eyes 
above  it  dancing  with  delighted  relish  in  her  teas 
ing. 

"  I  would  have  come  in  a  minute,"  he  said  low, 
sweeping  the  surface  of  the  spring  with  the  spray 
of  roses.  Susan's  look  dwelt  on  him,  gently 
thoughtful  in  its  expression  in  case  he  should  look 
up  and  catch  it. 

"  Leave  Byron,"  she  said,  "  leave  the  Isles  of 
Greece  where  that  lady,  whose  name  I've  forgotten, 
'  loved  and  sung,'  and  walk  in  the  sun  with  me  just 
because  I  wanted  to  see  this  spring!  Oh,  David,  I 
would  never  ask  it  of  you." 

"  You  know  I  would  have  loved  to  do  it." 

"  You  would  have  been  polite  enough  to  do  it. 
You're  always  polite." 

"  I  would  have  done  it  because  I  wanted  to,"  said 
the  victim  with  the  note  of  exasperation  in  his 
voice. 

She  stretched  her  hand  forward  and  very  gently 
took  the  branch  of  roses  from  him. 

"  Don't  tell  stories,"  she  said  in  the  cajoling  voice 
used  to  children.  "  This  is  Sunday." 

"  I  never  tell  stories,"  he  answered,  goaded  to 
open  irritation,  "  on  Sunday  or  any  other  day.  You 

83 


The  Emigrant  Trail 

know  I  would  have  liked  to  come  with  you  and 
Byron  could  have — have ' 

"  What?  "  the  branch  upright  in  her  hand. 

"Gone  to  the  devil!" 

"  David !  "  in  horror,  "  I  never  thought  youd 
talk  that  way." 

She  gave  the  branch  a  shake  and  a  shower  of 
drops  fell  on  him. 

"  There,  that's  to  cool  your  anger.  For  I  see 
you're  angry  though  I  haven't  got  the  least  idea 
what  it's  about." 

He  made  no  answer,  wounded  by  her  lack  of  un 
derstanding.  She  moved  the  rose  spray  against  her 
face,  inhaling  its  fragrance,  and  watching  him 
through  the  leaves.  After  a  moment  she  said  with 
a  questioning  inflection: 

"  You  were  angry  ?  " 

He  gave  her  a  quick  glance,  met  her  eyes,  shin 
ing  between  the  duller  luster  of  the  leaves,  and  sud 
denly  dumb  before  their  innocent  provocation, 
turned  his  head  away.  The  sense  of  his  disturb 
ance  trembled  on  the  air  and  Susan's  smile  died. 
She  dropped  the  branch,  trailing  it  lightly  across 
the  water,  and  wondering  at  the  confusion  that  had 
so  abruptly  upset  her  self-confident  gayety.  Held 
in  inexplicable  embarrassment  she  could  think  of 
nothing  to  say.  It  was  he  who  broke  the  silence 
with  a  change  of  subject: 

"  In  a  few  days  more  we'll  be  at  the  Platte. 
When  we  started  that  seemed  as  if  it  was  half  the 
journey,  didn't  it  ?  " 


The  Prairie 

"  We'll  get  there  just  about  a  month  from  the 
time  we  left  Independence.  Before  we  started  I 
thought  a  month  out  of  doors  this  way  would  be 
like  a  year.  But  it  really  hasn't  seemed  long  at  all. 
I  suppose  it's  because  I've  enjoyed  it  so." 

This  again  stirred  him.  Was  there  any  hope 
that  his  presence  might  have  been  the  cause  of  some 
small  fraction  of  that  enjoyment?  He  put  out  a 
timid  feeler : 

"  I  wonder  why  you  enjoyed  it.  Perhaps  Leff 
and  I  amused  you  a  little." 

It  was  certainly  a  humble  enough  remark,  but  it 
caused  a  slight  stiffening  and  withdrawal  in  the 
young  girl.  She  instinctively  felt  the  pleading  for 
commendation  and  resented  it.  It  was  as  if  a  slave, 
upon  whose  neck  her  foot  rested,  were  to  squirm 
round  and  recommend  himself  to  her  tolerance. 
David,  trying  to  extort  from  her  flattering  admis 
sions,  roused  a  determination  to  keep  the  slave  with 
his  face  in  the  dust. 

"  I  just  like  being  out  of  doors,"  she  said  care 
lessly.  "  And  it's  all  the  more  odd  as  I  was  always 
wanting  to  hurry  on  and  catch  up  the  large  train." 

This  was  a  grinding  in  of  the  heel.  The  large 
train  into  which  the  Gillespies  were  to  be  absorbed 
and  an  end  brought  to  their  independent  journey 
ing,  had  at  first  loomed  gloomily  before  David's 
vision.  But  of  late  it  had  faded  from  the  conver 
sation  and  his  mind.  The  present  was  so  good  it 
must  continue,  and  he  had  come  to  accept  that  first 
bright  dream  of  his  in  which  he  and  Susan  were  to 

85 


The  Emigrant  Trail 

go  riding  side  by  side  across  the  continent  as  a  per 
manent  reality.  His  timidity  was  swept  away  in  a 
rush  of  stronger  feeling  and  he  sat  erect,  looking 
sharply  at  her: 

"  I  thought  you'd  given  up  the  idea  of  joining 
with  that  train?  " 

Susan  raised  the  eyebrows  of  mild  surprise : 

"  Why  did  you  think  that?  " 

"  You've  not  spoken  of  it  for  days." 

"  That  doesn't  prove  anything.  There  are  lots 
of  important  things  I  don't  speak  of." 

"  You  ought  to  have  spoken  of  that." 

The  virile  note  of  authority  was  faint  in  his 
words,  the  first  time  Susan  had  ever  heard  it.  Her 
foot  was  in  a  fair  way  to  be  withdrawn  from  the 
slave's  neck.  The  color  in  her  cheeks  deepened  and 
it  was  she  who  now  dropped  her  eyes. 

"  We  had  arranged  to  join  the  train  long  before 
we  left  Rochester,"  she  answered.  "  Everybody 
said  it  was  dangerous  to  travel  in  a  small  party.  Dr. 
Whitman  told  my  father  that." 

"  There's  been  nothing  dangerous  so  far." 

"  No,  it's  later  when  we  get  into  the  country  of 
the  Sioux  and  the  Black-feet.  They  often  attack 
small  parties.  It's  a  great  risk  that  people  oughtn't 
to  run.  They  told  us  that  in  Independence,  too." 

He  made  no  answer  and  she  eyed  him  with 
stealthy  curiosity.  He  was  looking  on  the  ground, 
his  depression  apparent.  At  this  evidence  of  her 
ability  to  bring  joy  or  sorrow  to  her  slave  she  re 
lented. 

86 


The  Prairie 

"You'll  join  it,  too,  won't  you?"  she  said 
gently. 

"  I  don't  know.    The  big  trains  move  so  slowly." 

"  Oh,  you  must.  It  would  be  dreadfully  dreary 
to  separate  our  parties  after  we'd  traveled  so  long 
together." 

"  Maybe  I  will.     I  haven't  thought  about  it." 

"  But  you  must  think  about  it.  There's  no  know 
ing  now  when  we  may  come  upon  them — almost 
any  day.  You  don't  want  to  go  on  and  leave  us 
behind,  do  you  ?  " 

He  again  made  no  answer  and  she  stole  another 
quick  look  at  him.  This  mastery  of  a  fellow  crea 
ture  was  by  far  the  most  engrossing  pastime  life 
had  offered  her.  There  was  something  about  him, 
a  suggestion  of  depths  hidden  and  shut  away  from 
her  that  filled  her  with  the  venturesome  curiosity 
of  Fatima  opening  the  cupboards  in  Bluebeard's 
castle. 

"  We'd  feel  so  lonely  if  you  went  on  and  left  us 
behind  with  a  lot  of  strange  people,"  she  said,  with 
increasing  softness.  "  We'd  miss  you  so." 

The  young  man  turned  quickly  on  her,  leaned 
nearer,  and  said  huskily : 

"Would  you?" 

The  movement  brought  his  face  close  to  hers, 
and  she  shrank  back  sharply,  her  hand  ready  to  hold 
him  at  a  distance.  Her  laughing  expression 
changed  into  one  of  offended  dignity,  almost  aver 
sion.  At  the  same  time  his  agitation,  which  had 
paled  his  cheeks  and  burst  through  his  shy  reserve, 

87 


The  Emigrant  Trail 

filled  her  with  repulsion.  For  the  moment  she  dis 
liked  him.  If  he  had  tried  to  put  his  hand  upon  her 
she  would  have  struck  him  in  quick  rage  at  his 
presumption.  He  had  not  the  slightest  intention  of 
doing  so,  but  the  sudden  rush  of  feeling  that  her 
words  had  evoked,  made  him  oblivious  to  the  star 
tled  withdrawal  of  her  manner. 

"  Answer  me,"  he  said.  "  Would  you  miss  me  ? 
Am  I  anything  to  you  ?  " 

She  leaped  to  her  feet,  laughing  not  quite 
naturally,  for  her  heart  was  beating  hard  and  she 
had  suddenly  shrunk  within  herself,  her  spirit  alert 
and  angrily  defensive  in  its  maiden  stronghold. 

"  Miss  you,"  she  said  in  a  matter-of-fact  tone 
that  laid  sentiment  dead  at  a  blow,  "  of  course  I'd 
miss  you,"  then  backed  away  from  him,  brushing 
off  her  skirt. 

He  rose  and  stood  watching  her  with  a  lover's 
hang-dog  look.  She  glanced  at  him,  read  his  face 
and  once  more  felt  secure  in  her  ascendency.  Her 
debonair  self-assurance  came  back  with  a  lowering 
of  her  pulse  and  a  remounting  to  her  old  position 
of  condescending  command.  But  a  parting  lesson 
would  not  be  amiss  and  she  turned  from  him,  say 
ing  with  a  carefully  tempered  indifference : 

"  And  Leff,  too.  I'd  miss  Leff  dreadfully.  Come, 
it's  time  to  go." 

Before  he  could  answer  she  was  climbing  the 
bank,  not  looking  back,  moving  confidently  as  one 
who  had  no  need  of  his  aid.  He  followed  her 
slowly,  sore  and  angry,  his  eyes  on  her  figure  which 

88  * 


The  Prairie 

flitted  in  advance  clean-cut  against  the  pale,  enor 
mous  sky. 

He  had  just  caught  up  with  her  when  from  a 
hollow  near  the  roadside  Leff  came  into  view.  He 
had  been  after  antelope  and  carried  his  rifle  and  a 
hunting  knife  in  his  belt.  During  the  chase  he  had 
come  upon  a  deserted  Pawnee  settlement  in  a  de 
pression  of  the  prairie.  Susan  was  instantly  inter 
ested  and  wanted  to  see  it  and  David  stood  by, 
listening  in  sulky  silence  while  Leff  pointed  out  the 
way.  The  sun  was  sinking  and  they  faced  it,  the 
young  man's  indicating  finger  moving  back  and 
forth  across  the  vagaries  of  the  route.  The  prairie 
was  cut  by  long  undulations,  naked  of  verdure,  save 
a  spot  in  the  foreground  where,  beside  a  round 
greenish  pool,  a  single  tree  lifted  thinly  clad 
boughs.  Something  of  bleakness  had  crept  into  the 
prospect,  its  gay  greenness  was  giving  place  to  an 
austere  pallor  of  tint,  a  dry  economy  of  vegetation. 
The  summits  of  the  swells  were  bare,  the  streams 
shrunk  in  sandy  channels.  It  was  like  a  face  from 
which  youth  is  withdrawing. 

The  Indian  encampment  lay  in  a  hollow,  the 
small  wattled  huts  gathered  on  both  sides  of  a 
runlet  that  oozed  from  the  slope  and  slipped  be 
tween  a  line  of  stepping  stones.  The  hollow  was 
deep  for  the  level  country,  the  grassed  sides  sweep 
ing  abruptly  to  the  higher  reaches  above.  They 
walked  through  it,  examining  the  neatly  made  huts 
and  speculating  on  the  length  of  time  the  Indians 
had  left.  David  remembered  that  the  day  before, 


The  Emigrant  Trail 

the  trail  had  been  crossed  by  the  tracks  of  a  village 
in  transit,  long  lines  graven  in  the  dust  by  the  drag 
ging  poles  of  the  travaux.  He  felt  uneasy.  The 
Indians  might  not  be  far  and  they  themselves  were 
at  least  a  mile  from  the  camp,  and  but  one  of  them 
armed.  The  others  laughed  and  Susan  brought 
the  blood  into  his  face  by  asking  him  if  he  was 
afraid. 

He  turned  from  her,  frankly  angry  and  then 
stood  rigid  with  fixed  glance.  On  the  summit  of  'the 
opposite  slope,  black  against  the  yellow  west,  were 
a  group  of  mounted  figures.  They  were  massed 
together  in  a  solid  darkness,  but  the  outlines  of  the 
heads  were  clear,  heads  across  which  bristled  an 
upright  crest  of  hair  like  the  comb  of  a  rooster. 

For  a  long,  silent  moment  the  two  parties  re 
mained  immovable,  eying  each  other  across  the  hol 
low.  Then  David  edged  closer  to  the  girl.  He  felt 
his  heart  thumping,  but  his  first  throttling  grip  of 
fear  loosened  as  his  mind  realized  their  helpless 
ness.  Leff  was  the  only  one  with  arms.  They 
must  get  in  front  of  Susan  and  tell  her  to  run  and 
the  camp  was  a  mile  off!  He  felt  for  her  hand 
and  heard  her  whisper: 

"  Indians — there  are  six  of  them." 

As  she  spoke  the  opposite  group  broke  and  fig 
ures  detached  themselves.  Three,  hunched  in 
shapeless  sack-forms,  were  squaws.  They  made  no 
movement,  resting  immobile  as  statues,  the  sunset 
shining  between  the  legs  of  their  ponies.  The  men 
spoke  together,  their  heads  turning  from  the  trio 

90 


The  Prairie 

below  to  one  another.  David  gripped  the  hand  he 
held  and  leaned  forward  to  ask  Leff  for  his  knife. 

"  Don't  be  frightened,"  he  said  to  Susan.  "  It's 
all  right." 

"  I'm  not  frightened,"  she  answered  quietly. 

"  Your  knife,"  he  said  to  Leff  and  then  stopped, 
staring.  Leff  very  slowly,  step  pressing  stealthily 
behind  step,  was  creeping  backward  up  the  slope. 
His  face  was  chalk  white,  his  eyes  fixed  on  the  In 
dians.  In  his  hand  he  held  his  rifle  ready,  and  the 
long  knife  gleamed  in  his  belt.  For  a  moment 
David  had  no  voice  wherewith  to  arrest  him,  but 
Susan  had. 

:<  Where  are  you  going?  "  she  said  loudly. 

It  stopped  him  like  a  blow.  His  terrified  eyes 
shifted  to  her  face. 

"  I  wasn't  going,"  he  faltered. 

"  Come  back,"  she  said.  "  You  have  the  rifle 
and  the  knife." 

He  wavered,  his  loosened  lips  shaking. 

"  Back  here  to  us,"  she  commanded,  "  and  give 
David  the  rifle." 

He  crept  downward  to  them,  his  glance  always 
on  the  Indians.  They  had  begun  to  move  forward, 
leaving  the  squaws  on  the  ridge.  Their  approach 
was  prowlingly  sinister,  the  ponies  stepping  gin 
gerly  down  the  slope,  the  snapping  of  twigs  be 
neath  their  hoofs  clear  in  the  waiting  silence.  As 
they  dipped  below  the  blazing  sunset  the  rider's  fig 
ures  developed  in  detail,  their  bodies  bare  and 
bronzed  in  the  subdued  light.  Each  face,  held  high 


The  Emigrant  Trail 

on  a  craning  neck,  was  daubed  with  vermilion,  the 
high  crest  of  hair  bristling  across  the  shaven 
crowns.  Grimly  impassive  they  came  nearer,  not 
speaking  nor  moving  their  eyes  from  the  three 
whites.  One  of  them,  a  young  man,  naked  save 
for  a  breech  clout  and  moccasins,  was  in  the  lead. 
As  he  approached  David  saw  that  his  eyelids  were 
painted  scarlet  and  that  a  spot  of  silver  on  his 
breast  was  a  medal  hanging  from  a  leathern 
thong. 

At  the  bottom  of  the  slope  they  reined  up,  stand 
ing  in  a  group,  with  lifted  heads  staring.  The  trio 
opposite  stared  as  fixedly.  Behind  Susan's  back 
Left  had  passed  David  the  rifle.  He  held  it  in  one 
hand,  Susan  by  the  other.  He  was  conscious  of 
her  rigidity  and  also  of  her  fearlessness.  The  hand 
he  held  was  firm.  Once,  breathing  a  phrase  of  en 
couragement,  he  met  her  eyes,  steady  and  unafraid. 
All  his  own  fear  had  passed.  The  sense  of  danger 
was  thrillingly  acute,  but  he  felt  it  only  in  its  rela 
tion  to  her.  Dropping  her  hand  he  stepped  a  pace 
forward  and  said  loudly: 

"  How !  " 

The  Indian  with  the  medal  answered  him,  a  deep, 
gutteral  note. 

"  Pawnee?  "  David  asked. 

The  same  man  replied  with  a  word  that  none  of 
them  understood. 

"  My  camp  is  just  here,"  said  David,  with  a 
backward  jerk  of  his  head.  "  There  are  many  men 
there." 

92 


The  Prairie 

There  was  no  response  to  this  and  he  stepped 
back  and  said  to  Susan : 

"  Go  slowly  up  the  hill  backward  and  keep  your 
eyes  on  them.  Don't  look  afraid." 

She  immediately  began  to  retreat  with  slow, 
short  steps.  Left,  gasping  with  fear,  moved  with 
her,  his  speed  accelerating  with  each  moment. 
David  a  few  paces  in  advance  followed  them.  The 
Indians  watched  in  a  tranced  intentness  of  ob 
servation.  At  the  top  of  the  slope  the  three  squaws 
sat  as  motionless  as  carven  images.  The  silence 
\vas  profound. 

Into  it,  dropping  through  it  like  a  plummet 
through  space,  came  the  report  of  a  rifle.  It  was 
distant  but  clear,  and  as  if  the  bullet  had  struck  a 
taut  string  and  severed  it,  it  cut  the  tension  sharp 
and  life  flowed  back.  A  movement,  like  a  resumed 
quiver  of  vitality,  stirred  the  bronze  stillness  of  the 
squaws.  The  Indians  spoke  together — a  low  mur 
mur.  David  thought  he  saw  indecision  in  their  col 
loquy,  then  decision. 

"  They're  going,"  he  heard  Susan  say  a  little 
hoarse. 

"  Oh,  God,  they're  going!  "  Left  gasped,  as  one 
reprieved  of  the  death  sentence. 

Suddenly  they  wheeled,  and  a  rush  of  wild  fig 
ures,  galloped  up  the  slope.  The  group  of  squaws 
broke  and  fled  with  them.  The  light  struck  the 
bare  backs,  and  sent  splinters  from  the  gun  barrels 
and  the  noise  of  breaking  bushes  was  loud  under 
the  ponies'  feet. 

93 


The  Emigrant  Trail 

Once  again  on  the  road  David  and  Susan  stood 
looking  at  one  another.  Each  was  pale  and  short  of 
breath,  and  it  was  difficult  for  the  young  girl  to 
force  her  stiffened  lips  into  a  smile.  The  sunset 
struck  with  fierce  brilliancy  across  the  endless 
plain,  and  against  it,  the  Indians  bending  low,  fled 
in  a  streak  of  broken  color.  In  the  other  direction 
Leff's  running  figure  sped  toward  the  camp.  From 
the  distance  a  rifle  shot  again  sundered  the  quiet. 
After  silence  had  reclosed  over  the  rift  a  puff  of 
smoke  rose  in  the  air.  They  knew  now  it  was 
Daddy  John,  fearing  they  had  lost  the  way,  show 
ing  them  the  location  of  the  camp. 

Spontaneously,  without  words,  they  joined 
hands  and  started  to  where  the  trail  of  smoke  still 
hung,  dissolving  to  a  thread.  The  fleeing  figure  of 
Leff  brought  no  comments  to  their  lips.  They  did 
not  think  about  him,  his  cowardice  was  as  unim 
portant  to  them  in  their  mutual  engrossment  as  his 
body  was  to  the  indifferent  self-sufficiency  of  the 
landscape.  They  knew  he  was  hastening  that  he 
might  be  first  in  the  camp  to  tell  his  own  story  and 
set  himself  right  with  the  others  before  they  came. 
They  did  not  care.  They  did  not  even  laugh  at  it. 
They  would  do  that  later  when  they  had  returned 
to  the  plane  where  life  had  regained  its  familiar 
aspect. 

Silently,  hand  in  hand,  they  walked  between  the 
low  bushes  and  across  the  whitened  patches  of 
sandy  soil.  When  the  smoke  was  gone  the  pool 
with  the  lone  tree  guided  them,  the  surface  now 

94 


The  Prairie 

covered  with  a  glaze  of  gold.  A  deep  content  lay 
upon  them.  The  shared  peril  had  torn  away  a  veil 
that  hung  between  them  and  through  which  they 
had  been  dodging  to  catch  glimpses  of  one  another. 
Susan's  pride  in  her  ascendency  was  gone.  She 
walked  docilely  beside  the  man  who,  in  the  great 
moment,  had  not  failed.  She  was  subdued,  not  by 
the  recent  peril,  but  by  the  fact  that  the  slave  had 
shown  himself  the  master.  David's  chance  had 
come,  but  the  moment  was  too  completely  beautiful, 
the  sudden  sense  of  understanding  too  lovely  for 
him  to  break  it  with  words.  He  wanted  to  savor 
it,  to  take  joy  of  its  delicate  swreetness.  It  was  his 
voluptuousness  to  delight  in  it,  not  brush  its  bloom 
away  with  a  lover's  avowal.  He  was  the  idealist, 
moving  in  an  unexpectedly  realized  dream,  too  ex 
quisite  for  words  to  intrude  upon.  So  they  walked 
onward,  looking  across  the  long  land,  hand  clasped 
in  hand. 


END   OF    PART    I 


95 


PART    II 

The  River 


CHAPTER   I 

THE  Emigrant  Trail  struck  the  Platte  at  Grand 
Island.  From  the  bluffs  that  walled  in  the  river 
valley  the  pioneers  could  look  down  on  the  great 
waterway,  a  wide,  thin  current,  hardly  more  than 
a  glistening  veil,  stretched  over  the  sandy  bottom. 
Sometimes  the  veil  was  split  by  islands,  its  trans 
parent  tissue  passing  between  them  in  sparkling 
strands  as  if  it  were  sewn  with  silver  threads. 
These  separated  streams  slipped  along  so  quietly, 
so  without  noise  or  hurry,  they  seemed  to  share  in 
the  large  unconcern  of  the  landscape.  It  was  a 
still,  unpeopled,  spacious  landscape,  where  there 
was  no  work  and  no  time  and  the  morning  and  the 
evening  ma'de  the  day. 

Many  years  ago  the  Frenchmen  had  given  the 
river  its  name,  Platte,  because  of  its  lack  of  depths. 
There  were  places  where  a  man  could  walk  across 
it  and  not  be  wet  above  the  middle ;  and,  to  make 
up  for  this,  there  were  quicksands  stirring  beneath 
it  where  the  same  man  would  sink  in  above  his 
waist,  above  his  shoulders,  above  his  head.  The 
islands  that  broke  its  languid  currents  were  close 
grown  with  small  trees,  riding  low  in  the  water 
like  little  ships  freighted  deep  with  greenery.  To 
ward  evening,  looking  to  the  West,  with  the  dazzle 

98 


The  River 

of  the  sun  on  the  water,  they  were  a  fairy  fleet 
drifting  on  the  silver  tide  of  dreams. 

The  wide,  slow  stream  ran  in  the  middle  of  a 
wide,  flat  valley.  Then  came  a  line  of  broken  hills, 
yellowish  and  sandy,  cleft  apart  by  sharp  indenta 
tions,  and  dry,  winding  arroyos,  down  which  the 
buffalo  trooped,  thirsty,  to  the  river.  When  the 
sun  sloped  westward,  shadows  lay  clear  in  the  hol 
lows,  violet  and  amethyst  and  sapphire  blue,  trans 
parent  washes  of  color  as  pure  as  the  rays  of  the 
prism.  The  hills  rolled  back  in  a  turbulence  of  cone 
and  bluff  and  then  subsided,  fell  away  as  if  all  dis 
turbance  must  cease  before  the  infinite,  subduing 
calm  of  The  Great  Plains. 

Magic  words,  invoking  the  romance  of  the  un- 
conquered  West,  of  the  earth's  virgin  spaces,  of  the 
buffalo  and  the  Indian.  In  their  idle  silence,  tree 
less,  waterless,  clothed  as  with  a  dry  pale  hair  with 
the  feathered  yellow  grasses,  they  looked  as  if  the 
monstrous  creatures  of  dead  epochs  might  still 
haunt  them,  might  still  sun  their  horny  sides  among 
the  sand  hills,  and  wallow  in  the  shallows  of  the 
river.  It  was  a  bit  of  the  early  world,  as  yet  be 
yond  the  limit  of  the  young  nation's  energies,  the 
earth  as  man  knew  it  when  his  eye  was  focused  for 
far  horizons,  when  his  soul  did  not  shrink  before 
vast  solitudes. 

Against  this  sweeping  background  the  Indian 
loomed,  ruler  of  a  kingdom  whose  borders  faded 
into  the  sky.  He  stood,  a  blanketed  figure,  watch 
ing  the  flight  of  birds  across  the  blue;  he  rode,  a 

99 


The  Emigrant  Trail 

painted  savage,  where  the  cloud  shadows  blotted 
the  plain,  and  the  smoke  of  his  lodge  rose  over  the 
curve  of  the  earth.  Here  tribe  had  fought  with 
tribe,  old  scores  had  been  wiped  out  till  the  grass 
was  damp  with  blood,  wars  of  extermination  had 
raged.  Here  the  migrating  villages  made  a  mov 
ing  streak  of  color  like  a  bright  patch  on  a  map 
where  there  were  no  boundaries,  no  mountains,  and 
but  one  gleaming  thread  of  water.  In  the  quiet 
ness  of  evening  the  pointed  tops  of  the  tepees 
showed  dark  against  the  sky,  the  blur  of  smoke 
tarnishing  the  glow  in  the  West.  When  the  dark 
ness  came  the  stars  shone  on  this  spot  of  life  in 
the  wilderness,  circled  with  the  howling  of  wolves. 

The  buffalo,  driven  from  the  East  by  the  white 
man's  advance  and  from  the  West  by  the  red  man's 
pursuit,  had  congregated  in  these  pasture  lands. 
The  herds  numbered  thousands  upon  thousands, 
diminishing  in  the  distance  to  black  dots  on  the 
fawn-colored  face  of  the  prairie.  Twice  a  day  they 
went  to  the  river  to  drink.  Solemnly,  in  Indian 
file,  they  passed  down  the  trails  among  the  sand 
hills,  worn  into  gutters  by  their  continuous  hoofs. 
From  the  wall  of  the  bluffs  they  emerged  into  the 
bottom,  line  after  line,  moving  slowly  to  the  water. 
Then  to  the  river  edge  the  valley  was  black  with 
them,  a  mass  of  huge,  primordial  forms,  from 
which  came  bellowings  and  a  faint,  sharp  smell  of 
musk. 

The  valley  was  the  highway  to  the  West — the 
far  West,  the  West  of  the  great  fur  companies.  It 

100 


The  River 


led  from  the  Missouri,  whose  turbid  current  was 
the  boundary  between  the  frontier  and  the  wild,  to 
the  second  great  barrier,  the  mountains  which 
blocked  the  entrance  to  the  unknown  distance, 
where  the  lakes  were  salt  and  there  were  deserts 
rimed  with  alkali.  It  stretched  a  straight,  plain 
path,  from  the  river  behind  it  to  the  peaked  white 
summits  in  front. 

Along  it  had  come  a  march  of  men,  first  a  scat 
tered  few,  then  a  broken  line,  then  a  phalanx — the 
winners  of  the  West. 

They  were  bold  men,  hard  men,  men  who  held 
life  lightly  and  knew  no  fear.  In  the  van  were  the 
trappers  and  fur  traders  with  their  beaver  traps  and 
their  long-barreled  rifles.  They  went  far  up  into 
the  mountains  where  the  rivers  rose  snow-chilled 
and  the  beavers  built  their  dams.  There  were  moun 
tain  men  in  fringed  and  beaded  buckskins,  long 
haired,  gaunt  and  weather  scarred;  men  whose 
pasts  were  unknown  and  unasked,  who  trapped 
and  hunted  and  lived  in  the  lodges  with  their 
squaws.  There  were  black-eyed  Canadian  voya- 
geurs  in  otter-skin  caps  and  coats  made  of  blankets, 
hardy  as  Indian  ponies,  gay  and  light  of  heart,  who 
poled  the  keel  boats  up  the  rivers  to  the  chanting  of 
old  French  songs.  There  were  swarthy  half- 
breeds,  still  of  tongue,  stolid  and  eagle-featured, 
wearing  their  blankets  as  the  Indians  did,  noiseless 
in  their  moccasins  as  the  lynx  creeping  on  its  prey. 
And  then  came  the  emigrants,  the  first  white- 
covered  wagons,  the  first  white  women,  looking  out 

101 


The  Emigrant  Trail 

from  the  shade  of  their  sunbonnets.  The  squaw 
wives  wondered  at  their  pale  faces  and  bright  hair. 
They  came  at  intervals,  a  few  wagons  crawling 
down  the  valley  and  then  the  long,  bare  road  with 
the  buffaloes  crossing  it  to  the  river  and  the  occa 
sional  red  spark  of  a  trapper's  camp  fire.  In  '43 
came  the  first  great  emigration,  when  1,000  people 
went  to  Oregon.  The  Indians,  awed  and  uneasy, 
watched  the  white  line  of  wagon  tops.  "  Were 
there  so  many  pale  faces  as  this  in  the  Great 
Father's  country?"  one  of  the  chiefs  asked. 

Four  years  later  the  Mormons  emigrated.  It 
was  like  the  moving  of  a  nation,  an  exodus  of 
angry  fanatics,  sullen,  determined  men  burning 
with  rage  at  the  murder  of  their  prophet,  cursing 
his  enemies  and  quoting  his  texts.  The  faces  of 
women  and  children  peered  from  the  wagons,  the 
dust  of  moving  flocks  and  herds  rose  like  a  column 
at  the  end  of  the  caravan.  Their  camps  at  night 
were  like  the  camps  of  the  patriarchs,  many  women 
to  work  for  each  man,  thousands  of  cattle  grazing 
in  the  grass.  From  the  hills  above  the  Indians 
watched  the  red  circle  of  their  fires  and  in  the  gray 
dawn  saw  the  tents  struck  and  the  trains  "  roll 
out."  There  were  more  people  from  the  Great 
Father's  country,  more  people  each  year,  till  the 
great  year,  '49,  when  the  cry  of  gold  went  forth 
across  the  land  like  a  trumpet  call. 

Then  the  faces  on  the  Emigrant  Trail  were  as 
the  faces  on  the  populous  streets  of  cities.  The 
trains  of  wagons  were  unbroken,  one  behind  the 

1 02 


The  River 

other,  straight  to  the  sunset.  A  cloud  of  dust 
moved  with  them,  showed  their  coming  far  away 
as  they  wheeled  downward  at  Grand  Island,  hid 
their  departure  as  they  doubled  up  for  the  fording 
of  the  Platte.  All  the  faces  were  set  westward,  all 
the  eyes  were  strained  to  that  distant  goal  where 
the  rivers  flowed  over  golden  beds  and  the  flakes 
lay  yellow  in  the  prospector's  pan. 

The  Indians  watched  them,  cold  at  the  heart,  for 
the  people  in  the  Great  Father's  Country  were  nu 
merous  as  the  sands  of  the  sea,  terrible  as  an  army 
with  banners. 


103 


CHAPTER    II 

THE  days  were  very  hot.  Brilliant,  dewless  morn 
ings,  blinding  middays,  afternoons  held  breathless 
in  the  remorseless  torrent  of  light.  The  caravan 
crawled  along  the  river's  edge  at  a  footspace,  the 
early  shadows  shooting  far  ahead  of  it,  then  dwin 
dling  to  a  blot  beneath  each  moving  body,  then  slant 
ing  out  behind.  There  was  speech  in  the  morning 
which  died  as  the  day  advanced,  all  thought  sinking 
into  torpor  in  the  monotonous  glare.  In  the  late 
afternoon  the  sun,  slipping  down  the  sky,  peered 
through  each  wagon's  puckered  canvas  opening 
smiting  the  drivers  into  lethargy.  Propped  against 
the  roof  supports,  hats  drawn  low  over  their  brows 
they  slept,  the  riders  pacing  on  ahead  stooped  and 
silent  on  their  sweating  horses.  There  was  no  sound 
but  the  creaking  of  the  wheels,  and  the  low  whis 
perings  of  the  river  into  which,  now  and  then,  an 
undermined  length  of  sand  dropped  with  a  splash. 

But  in  the  evening  life  returned.  When  the  dusk 
stole  out  of  the  hill  rifts  and  the  river  flowed  thick 
gold  from  bank  to  bank,  when  the  bluffs  grew 
black  against  the  sunset  fires,  the  little  party 
shook  off  its  apathy  and  animation  revived. 
Coolness  came  with  the  twilight,  sharpening  into 
coldness  as  the  West  burned  from  scarlet  and  gold 

104 


The  River 

to  a  clear  rose.    The  fire,  a  mound  of  buffalo  chips 
into   which   glowing   tunnels   wormed,   was    good. 
Overcoats  and  blankets  were  shaken  out  and  the 
fragrance  of  tobacco  was  on  the  air.     The  recru 
descence  of  ideas  and  the  need  to  interchange  them 
came  on  the  wanderers.     Hemmed  in  by  Nature's 
immensity,  unconsciously  oppressed  by  it,  they  felt 
the  want  of  each  other,  of  speech,  of  sympathy,  and 
crouched  about  the  fire  telling  anecdotes  of  their 
life  "  back  home,"  that  sounded  trivial  but  drew 
them  closer  in  the  bond  of  a  nostalgic  wistfulness. 
One  night  they  heard  a  drum  beat.     It  came  out 
of  the  distance  faint  but  distinct,  throbbing  across 
the  darkness  like  a  frightened  heart  terrified  by  its 
own  loneliness.     The  hand  of  man  was  impelling 
it,  an  unseen  hand,  only  telling  of  its  presence  by 
the  thin  tattoo  it  sent  through  the  silence.     Words 
died  and  they  sat  rigid  in  the  sudden  alarm  that 
comes  upon  men  in  the  wilderness.     The   doctor 
clutched  his  daughter's  arm,  Daddy  John  reached 
for  his  rifle.     Then,  abruptly  as  it  had  come,   it 
stopped    and    they    broke    into    suggestions — emi 
grants  on  the  road  beyond  them,  an  Indian  war 
drum  on  the  opposite  bank. 

But    they    were    startled,    their     apprehensions 
roused.     They  sat  uneasy,  and  half  an  hour  later 
the  pad  of  horses'  hoofs  and  approaching  voices 
made  each  man  grip  his  gun  and  leap  to  his  feet. 
They  sent  a  hail  through  the  darkness  and  an  an 
swering  voice  came  back : 
"  It's  all  right.     Friends." 
105 


The  Emigrant  Trail 

The  figures  that  advanced  into  the  firelight  were 
those  of  four  men  with  a  shadowy  train  of  pack 
mules  extending  behind  them.  In  fringed  and 
greasy  buckskins,  with  long  hair  and  swarthy  faces, 
their  feet  noiseless  in  moccasins,  they  were  so  much 
of  the  wild,  that  it  needed  the  words,  "  Trappers 
from  Laramie,"  to  reassure  the  doctor  and  make 
Leff  put  down  his  rifle. 

The  leader,  a  lean  giant,  bearded  to  the  cheek 
bones  and  with  lank  locks  of  hair  falling  from  a 
coon-skin  cap,  gave  his  introduction  briefly.  They 
were  a  party  of  trappers  en  route  from  Fort  Lara 
mie  to  St.  Louis  with  the  winter's  catch  of  skins. 
In  skirted,  leather  hunting  shirt  and  leggings,  knife 
and  pistols  in  the  belt  and  powder  horn,  bullet 
mold,  screw  and  awl  hanging  from  a  strap  across 
his  chest,  he  was  the  typical  "  mountain  man." 
While  he  made  his  greetings,  with  as  easy  an  as 
surance  as  though  he  had  dropped  in  upon  a  party 
of  friends,  his  companions  picketed  the  animals 
which  moved  on  the  outskirts  of  the  light  in  a  spec 
tral  band  of  drooping  forms. 

The  three  other  men,  were  an  ancient  trapper 
with  a  white  froth  of  hair  framing  a  face,  brown 
and  wrinkled  as  a  nut,  a  Mexican,  Indian-dark, 
who  crouched  in  his  scrape,  rolled  a  cigarette  and 
then  fell  asleep,  and  a  French  Canadian  voyageur 
in  a  coat  made  of  blanketing  and  with  a  scarlet 
handkerchief  tied  smooth  over' his  head.  He  had  a 
round  ruddy  face,  and  when  he  smiled,  which  he  did 
all  the  time,  his  teeth  gleamed  square  and  white 

1 06 


The  River 

from  the  curly  blackness  of  his  beard.  He  got  out 
his  pans  and  buffalo  meat,  and  was  dropping  pieces 
of  hardtack  into  the  spitting  tallow  when  Susan 
addressed  him  in  his  own  tongue,  the  patois  of  the 
province  of  Quebec.  He  gave  a  joyous  child's 
laugh  and  a  rattling  fire  of  French  followed,  and 
then  he  must  pick  out  for  her  the  daintiest  morsel 
and  gallantly  present  it  on  a  tin  plate,  wiped  clean 
on  the  grass. 

They  ate  first  and  then  smoked  and  over  the  pipes 
engaged  in  the  bartering  which  was  part  of  the 
plainsman's  business.  The  strangers  were  short  of 
tobacco  and  the  doctor's  party  wanted  buffalo  skins. 
Fresh  meat  and  bacon  changed  hands.  David 
threw  in  a  measure  of  corn  meal  and  the  old  man— 
they  called  him  Joe — bid  for  it  with  a  hind  quarter 
of  antelope.  Then,  business  over,  they  talked  of 
themselves,  their  work,  the  season's  catch,  and  the 
life  far  away  across  the  mountains  where  the  bea 
ver  streams  are. 

They  had  come  from  the  distant  Northwest, 
threaded  with  ice-cold  rivers  and  where  lakes,  sunk 
between  rocky  bulwarks,  mirrored  the  whitened 
peaks.  There  the  three  Tetons  raised  their  giant 
heads  and  the  hollows  were  spread  with  a  grassy 
carpet  that  ran  up  the  slopes  like  a  stretched  green 
cloth.  There  had  once  been  the  trapper's  paradise 
where  the  annual  "  rendezvous  "  was  held  and  the 
men  of  the  mountains  gathered  from  creek  and 
river  and  spent  a  year's  earnings  in  a  wild  week. 
But  the  streams  were  almost  empty  now  and  the 

107 


The  Emigrant  Trail 

great  days  over.  There  was  a  market  but  no  furs. 
Old  Joe  could  tell  what  it  had  once  been  like,  old 
Joe  who  years  ago  had  been  one  of  General  Ash 
ley's  men. 

The  old  man  took  his  pipe  out  of  his  mouth  and 
shook  his  head. 

'  The  times  is  dead,"  he  said,  with  the  regret  of 
great  days  gone,  softened  by  age  which  softens  all 
things.  '  There  ain't  anything  in  it  now.  When 
Ashley  and  the  Sublettes  and  Campbell  ran  the  big 
companies  it  wras  a  fine  trade.  The  rivers  was 
swarmin'  with  beaver  and  if  the  Indians  'ud  let  us 
alone  every  man  of  us  'ud  come  down  to  rendez 
vous  with  each  mule  carrying  two  hundred  pound 
of  skins.  Them  was  the  times." 

The  quick,  laughing  patter  of  the  voyageur's 
French  broke  in  on  his  voice,  but  old  Joe,  casting 
a  dim  eye  back  over  the  splendid  past,  was  too  pre 
occupied  to  mind. 

"  I've  knowed  the  time  when  the  Powder  River 
country  and  the  rivers  that  ran  into  Jackson's  Hole 
was  as  thick  with  beaver  as  the  buffalo  range  is 
now  with  buffalo.  We'd  follow  up  a  new  stream 
and  where  the  ground  was  marshy  we'd  know  the 
beaver  was  there,  for  they'd  throw  dams  across  till 
the  water'd  soak  each  side,  squeezin'  through  the 
willow  roots.  Then  we'd  cut  a  tree  and  scoop  out  a 
canoe,  and  when  the  shadders  began  to  stretch  go 
nosin'  along  the  bank,  keen  and  cold  and  the  sun 
settin'  red  and  not  a  sound  but  the  dip  of  the  pad 
dle.  We'd  set  the  traps — seven  to  a  man — and  at 

108 


The  River 

sun-up  out  again  in  the  canoe,  clear  and  still  in  the 
gray  of  the  morning,  and  find  a  beaver  in  every 
trap." 

"  Nothin'  but  buffalo  now  to  count  on,"  said  the 
the  other  man.  "  And  what's  in  that?  " 

David  said  timidly,  as  became  so  extravagant  a 
suggestion,  that  a  mountain  man  he  had  met  in  In 
dependence  told  him  he  thought  the  buffalo  would 
be  eventually  exterminated.  The  trappers  looked 
at  one  another,  and  exchanged  satiric  smiles.  Even 
the  Canadian  stopped  in  his  chatter  with  Susan  to 
exclaim  in  amaze :  "  Sacre  Tonnerre! " 

Old  Joe  gave  a  lazy  cast  of  his  eye  at  David. 

"  Why,  boy,"  he  said,  "  if  they'd  been  killin' 
them  varmints  since  Bunker  Hill  they  couldn't  do  no 
more  with  'em  than  you  could  with  your  little  pop 
gun  out  here  on  the  plains.  The  Indians  has  druv 
'em  from  the  West  and  the  white  man's  druv  'em 
from  the  East  and  it  don't  make  no  difference.  I 
knowed  Captain  Bonneville  and  he's  told  me  how 
he  stood  on  the  top  of  Scotts  Bluffs  and  seen  the 
country  black  with  'em — millions  of  'em.  That's 
twenty-five  years  ago  and  he  ain't  seen  no  more 
than  I  have  on  these  plains  not  two  seasons  back. 
Out  as  far  as  your  eye  could  reach,  crawlin'  with 
buffalo,  till  you  couldn't  see  cow  nor  bull,  but  just  a 
black  mass  of  'em,  solid  to  the  horizon." 

David  felt  abashed  and  the  doctor  came  to  his 
rescue  with  a  question  about  Captain  Bonneville 
and  Joe  forgot  his  scorn  of  foolish  young  men  in 
reminiscences  of  that  hardy  pathfinder. 

109 


The  Emigrant  Trail 

The  old  trapper  seemed  to  have  known  everyone 
of  note  in  the  history  of  the  plains  and  the  fur 
trade,  or  if  he  didn't  know  them  he  said  he  did 
which  was  just  as  good.  Lying  on  a  buffalo  skin, 
the  firelight  gilding  the  bony  ridges  of  his  face,  a 
stub  of  black  pipe  gripped  between  his  broken  teeth, 
he  told  stories  of  the  men  who  had  found  civiliza 
tion  too  cramped  and  taken  to  the  wilderness. 
Some  had  lived  and  died  there,  others  come  back, 
old  and  broken,  to  rest  in  a  corner  •  of  the  towns 
they  had  known  as  frontier  settlements.  Here  they 
could  look  out  to  the  West  they  loved,  strain  their 
dim  eyes  over  the  prairie,  where  the  farmer's  plow 
was  tracing  its  furrow,  to  the  Medicine  Way  of  The 
Pale  Face  that  led  across  the  plains  and  up  the  long 
bright  river  and  over  the  mountains  to  the  place  of 
the  trapper's  rendezvous. 

He  had  known  Jim  Beckwourth,  the  mulatto 
who  was  chief  of  the  Crows,  fought  their  battles 
and  lived  in  their  villages  with  a  Crow  wife.  Joe 
described  him  as  "a  powerful  liar,"  but  a  man  with 
out  fear.  Under  his  leadership  the  Crows  had  be 
come  a  great  nation  and  the  frontiersmen  laid  it  to 
his  door  that  no  Crow  had  ever  attacked  a  white 
man  except  in  self-defense.  Some  said  he  was  still 
living  in  California.  Joe  remembered  him  well — 
a  tall  man,  strong  and  fleet-footed  as  an  Indian, 
with  mighty  muscles  and  a  skin  like  bronze.  He 
always  wore  round  his  neck  a  charm  of  a  per 
forated  bullet  set  between  two  glass  beads  hanging 
from  a  thread  of  sinew. 

no 


The  River 

He  had  known  Rose,  another  white  chief  of  the 
Crows,  an  educated  man  who  kept  his  past  secret 
and  of  whom  it  was  said  that  the  lonely  places  and 
the  Indian  trails  were  safer  for  him  than  the  popu 
lous  ways  of  towns.  The  old  man  had  been  one  of 
the  garrison  in  Fort  Union  when  the  terrible  Alex 
ander  Harvey  had  killed  Isidore,  the  Mexican,  and 
standing  in  the  courtyard  cried  to  the  assembled 
men :  "  I,  Alexander  Harvey,  have  killed  the  Span 
iard.  If  there  are  any  of  his  friends  who  want  to 
take  it  up  let  them  come  on  " ;  and  not  a  man  in 
the  fort  dared  to  go.  He  had  been  with  Jim 
Bridger,  when,  on  a  wager,  he  went  down  Bear 
River  in  a  skin  boat  and  came  out  on  the  waters  of 
the  Great  Salt  Lake. 

Susan,  who  had  stopped  her  talk  with  the  voya- 
geur  to  listen  to  this  minstrel  of  the  plains,  now 
said: 

"  Aren't  you  lonely  in  those  quiet  places  where 
there's  no  one  else?  " 

The  old  man  nodded,  a  gravely  assenting  eye  on 
hers: 

"  Powerful  lonely,  sometimes.  There  ain't  a 
mountain  man  that  ain't  felt  it,  some  of  'em  often, 
others  of  'em  once  and  so  scairt  that  time  they 
won't  take  the  risk  again.  It  comes  down  suddint, 
like  a  darkness — then  everything  round  that- was  so 
good  and  fine,  the  sound  of  the  pines  and  the  bub 
ble  of  the  spring  and  the  wind  blowing  over  the 
grass,  seems  like  they'd  set  you  crazy.  You'd  give 
a  year's  peltries  for  the  sound  of  a  man's  voice. 

in 


The  Emigrant  Trail 

Just  like  when  some  one's  dead  that  you  set  a  heap 
on  and  you  feel  you'd  give  most  everything  you  got 
to  see  'em  again  for  a  minute.  There  ain't  nothin' 
you  wouldn't  promise  if  by  doin'  it  you  could  hear 
a  feller  hail  you — just  one  shout — as  he  comes 
ridin'  up  the  trail." 

"  That  was  how  Jim  Cockrell  felt  when  he 
prayed  for  the  dog,"  said  the  tall  man. 

"Did  he  get  the  dog?" 

He  nodded. 

"That's  what  he  said  anyway.  He  was  took 
with  just  such  a  lonesome  spell  once  when  he  was 
trapping  in  the  Mandans  country.  He  was  a  pious 
critter,  great  on  prayer  and  communing  with  the 
Lord.  And  he  felt — I've  heard  him  tell  about  it- 
just  as  if  he'd  go  wild  if  he  didn't  get  something 
for  company.  What  he  wanted  was  a  dog  and  you 
might  just  as  well  want  an  angel  out  there  with 
nothin'  but  the  Indian  villages  breakin'  the  dazzle 
of  the  snow  and  you  as  far  away  from  them  as  you 
could  get.  But  that  didn't  stop  Jim.  He  just  got 
down  and  prayed,  and  then  he  waited  and  prayed 
some  more  and  'ud  look  around  for  the  dog,  as  cer 
tain  he'd  come  as  that  the  sun  'ud  set.  Bimeby  he 
fell  asleep  and  when  he  woke  there  was  the  dog,  a 
little  brown  varmint,  curled  up  beside  him  on  the 
blanket.  Jim  used  to  say  an  angel  brought  it.  I'm 
not  contradictin',  but " 

"  Wai,"  said  old  Joe,  "  he  most  certainly  come 
back  into  the  fort  with  a  dog.  I  was  there  and  seen 
him." 

112 


The  River 

Left  snickered,  even  the  doctor's  voice  showed 
the  incredulous  note  when  he  asked : 

"  Where  could  it  have  come  from  ?  " 

The  tall  man  shrugged. 

"  Don't  ask  me.  All  I  know  is  that  Jim  Cock- 
rell  swore  to  it  and  I've  heard  him  tell  it  drunk  and 
sober  and  always  the  same  way.  He  held  out  for 
the  angel.  I'm  not  saying  anything  against  that, 
but  whatever  it  was  it  must  have  had  a  pretty 
powerful  pull  to  get  a  dog  out  to  a  trapper  in  the 
dead  o'  winter." 

They  wondered  over  the  story,  offering  explana 
tions,  and  as  they  talked  the  fire  died  low  and  the 
moon,  a  hemisphere  clean-halved  as  though  sliced 
by  a  sword,  rose  serene  from  a  cloud  bank.  Its 
coming  silenced  them  and  for  a  space  they  watched 
the  headlands  of  the  solemn  landscape  blackening 
against  the  sky,  and  the  river  breaking  into  silvery 
disquiet.  Separating  the  current,  which  girdled  it 
with  a  sparkling  belt,  was  the  dark  blue  of  an  is 
land,  thick  plumed  with  trees,  a  black  and  mysteri 
ous  oblong.  Old  Joe  pointed  to  it  with  his  pipe. 

"  Brady's  Island,"  he  said.  "  Ask  Hy  to  tell  you 
about  that.  He  knew  Brady." 

The  tall  man  looked  thoughtfully  at  the  crested 
shape. 

"  That's  it,"  he  said.  "  That's  where  Brady  was 
murdered." 

And  then  he  told  the  story : 

"  It  was  quite  a  while  back  in  the  3O's,  and  the 
free  trappers  and  mountain  men  brought  their  pelts 


The  Emigrant  Trail 

down  in  bull  boats  and  mackinaws  to  St.  Louis. 
There  were  a  bunch  of  men  workin'  down  the  river 
and  when  they  got  to  Brady's  Island,  that's  out 
there  in  the  stream,  the  water  was  so  shallow  the 
boats  wouldn't  float,  so  they  camped  on  the  island. 
Brady  was  one  of  'em,  a  cross-tempered  man,  and 
he  and  another  feller'd  been  pickin'  at  each  other 
day  by  day  since  leavin'  the  mountains.  They'd  got 
so  they  couldn't  get  on  at  all.  Men  do  that  some 
times  on  the  trail,  get  to  hate  the  sight  and  sound 
of  each  other.  You  can't  tell  why. 

"  One  day  the  others  went  after  buffalo  and  left 
Brady  and  the  man  that  hated  him  alone  on  the 
island.  When  the  hunters  come  home  at  night 
Brady  was  dead  by  the  camp  fire,  shot  through  the 
head  and  lyin'  stiff  in  his  blood.  The  other  one 
had  a  slick  story  to  tell  how  Brady  cleanin'  his 
gun,  discharged  it  by  accident  and  the  bullet  struck 
up  and  killed  him.  They  didn't  believe  it,  but  it 
weren't  their  business.  So  they  buried  Brady  there 
on  the  island  and  the  next  day  each  man  shoul 
dered  his  pack  and  struck  out  to  foot  it  to  the  Mis 
souri. 

"  It  was  somethin'  of  a  walk  and  the  ones  that 
couldn't  keep  up  the  stride  fell  behind.  They  was 
all  strung  out  along  the  river  bank  and  some  of  'em 
turned  off  for  ways  they  thought  was  shorter,  and 
first  thing  you  know  the  party  was  scattered,  and 
the  man  that  hated  Brady  was  left  alone,  lopin' 
along  on  a  side  trail  that  slanted  across  the  prairie 
to  the  country  of  the  Loup  Fork  Pawnees. 

114 


The  River 

"  That  was  the  last  they  saw  of  him  and  it  was 
a  long  time — news  traveled  slow  on  the  plains  in 
them  days — before  anybody  heard  of  him  for  he 
never  come  to  St.  Louis  to  tell.  Some  weeks  later  a 
party  of  trappers  passin'  near  the  Pawnee  villages 
on  the  Loup  Fork  was  hailed  by  some  Indians  and 
told  they  had  a  paleface  sick  in  the  chief's  tent. 
The  trappers  went  there  and  in  the  tent  found  a 
white  man,  clear  headed,  but  dyin'  fast. 

"  It  was  the  man  that  killed  Brady.  Lyin'  there 
on  the  buffalo  skin,  he  told  them  all  about  it — how 
he  done  it  and  the  lie  he  fixed  up.  Death  was  corn- 
in',  and  the  way  he'd  hated  so  he  couldn't  keep  his 
hand  from  murder  was  all  one  now.  He  wanted  to 
get  it  off  his  mind  and  sorter  square  himself.  When 
he'd  struck  out  alone  he  went  on  for  a  spell,  killin' 
enough  game  and  always  hopin'  for  the  sight  of 
the  river.  Then  one  day  he  caught  his  gun  in  a 
willow  tree  and  it  went  off,  sending  the  charge  into 
his  thigh  and  breaking  the  bone.  He  was  stunned 
for  a  while  and  then  tried  to  move  on,  tried  to 
crawl.  He  crawled  for  six  days  and  at  the  end  of 
the  sixth  found  a  place  with  water  and  knowed  he'd 
come  to  the  end  of  his  rope.  He  tore  a  strip  off  his 
blanket  and  tied  it  to  the  barrel  of  his  rifle  and 
stuck  it  end  up.  The  Pawnees  found  him  there  and 
treated  him  kind,  as  them  Indians  will  do  some 
times.  They  took  him  to  their  village  and  cared 
for  him,  but  it  was  too  late.  He  wanted  to  see  a 
white  man  and  tell  and  then  die  peaceful,  and  that's 
what  he  done.  While  the  trappers  was  with  him  he 


The  Emigrant  Trail 

died  and  they  buried  him  there  decent  outside  the 
village." 

The  speaker's  voice  ceased  and  in  the  silence  the 
others  turned  to  look  at  the  black  shape  of  the 
island  riding  the  gleaming  waters  like  a  funeral 
barge.  In  its  dark  isolation,  cut  off  from  the  land 
by  the  quiet  current,  it  seemed  a  fitting  theater  for 
the  grim  tragedy.  They  gazed  at  it,  chilled  into 
dumbness,  thinking  of  the  murderer  moving  to 
freedom  under  the  protection  of  his  lie,  then  over 
taken,  and  in  his  anguish,  alone  in  the  silence,  meet 
ing  the  question  of  his  conscience. 

Once  more  the  words  came  back  to  David :  "  Be 
hold,  He  that  keepeth  Israel  shall  neither  slumber 
nor  sleep/' 

Susan  pressed  against  her  father,  awed  and  cold, 
and  from  old  Joe,  stretched  in  his  blanket,  came  a 
deep  and  peaceful  snore. 


116 


CHAPTER   III 

SUSAN  was  riding  alone  on  the  top  of  the  bluffs. 
The  evening  before,  three  men  returning  from  the 
Oregon  country  to  the  States,  had  bivouacked  with 
them  and  told  them  that  the  New  York  Company 
was  a  day's  march  ahead,  so  she  had  gone  to  the 
highlands  to  reconnoiter. 

Just  here  the  bluffs  swept  inward  toward  the 
river,  contracting  the  bottom  to  a  valley  only  a  few 
miles  in  width.  Through  it  the  road  lay,  a  well- 
worn  path  crossed  as  with  black  stripes  by  the  buf 
falo  runs.  Susan's  glance,  questing  ahead  for  the 
New  York  train,  ran  to  the  distance  where  the  crys 
tal  glaze  of  the  stream  shrunk  to  a  silver  thread 
imbedded  in  green  velvet.  There  was  a  final  point 
where  green  and  silver  converged  in  a  blinding 
dazzle,  and  over  this  the  sun  hung,  emerging  from 
a  nebulous  glare  to  a  slowly  defining  sphere. 

Turning  to  the  left  her  gaze  lost  itself  in  the  end 
lessness  of  the  plains.  It  was  like  looking  over  the 
sea,  especially  at  the  horizon  where  the  land  was 
drawn  in  a  straight,  purplish  line.  She  could  al 
most  see  sails  there,  small  sails  dark  against  a  sky 
that  was  so  remote  its  color  had  faded  to  an  aerial 
pallor.  As  the  journey  had  advanced  the  influence 
of  these  spacious  areas  had  crept  upon  her.  In  the 

117 


The  Emigrant  Trail 

beginning  there  had  been  times  when  they  woke  in 
her  an  unexplained  sadness.  Now  that  was  gone 
and  she  loved  to  ride  onward,  the  one  item  of  life 
in  the  silence,  held  in  a  new  correspondence  with 
the  solemn  immensity.  It  affected  her  as  prayer 
does  the  devotee.  Under  its  inspiration  she  won 
dered  at  old  worries  and  felt  herself  impervious  to 
new  ones. 

With  eyes  on  the  purple  horizon  her  thoughts 
went  back  to  her  home  in  Rochester  with  the  green 
shutters  and  the  brasses  on  the  door.  How  far 
away  it  seemed!  Incidents  in  its  peaceful  routine 
were  like  the  resurgences  of  memory  from  a  previ 
ous  incarnation.  There  was  no  tenderness  in  her 
thoughts  of  the  past,  no  sentiment  clung  to  her 
recollections  of  what  was  now  a  dead  phase  of  her 
life.  She  was  slightly  impatient  of  its  contented 
smallness,  of  her  satisfaction  with  such  things  as 
her  sewing,  her  cake  making,  her  childish  confer 
ences  with  girl  friends  on  the  vine-grown  porch. 
They  seemed  strangely  trivial  and  unmeaning 
compared  to  the  exhilarating  present.  She  was 
living  now,  feeling  the  force  of  a  rising  growth, 
her  horizon  widening  to  suit  that  which  her  eyes 
sought,  the  dependence  of  her  sheltered  girlhood 
gone  from  her  as  the  great  adventure  called  upon 
untouched  energies  and  untried  forces.  It  was  like 
looking  back  on  another  girl,  or  like  a  woman  look 
ing  back  on  a  child. 

She  had  often  spoken  to  David  of  these  past 
days,  and  saw  that  her  descriptions  charmed  him. 

118 


The  River 

He  had  asked  her  questions  about  it  and  been  sur 
prised  that  she  did  not  miss  the  old  existence  more. 
To  him  it  had  seemed  ideal,  and  he  told  her  that 
that  was  the  way  he  should  like  to  live  and  some 
day  would,  with  just  such  a  servant  as  Daddy  John, 
and  a  few  real  friends,  and  a  library  of  good  books. 
His  enthusiasm  made  her  dimly  realize  the  gulf  be 
tween  them — the  gulf  between  the  idealist  and  the 
materialist — that  neither  had  yet  recognized  and 
that  only  she,  of  the  two,  instinctively  felt.  The 
roughness  of  the  journey  irked  David.  The  toil 
of  the  days  wore  on  his  nerves.  She  could  see 
that  it  pained  him  to  urge  the  tired  animals  for 
ward,  to  lash  them  up  the  stream  banks  and  drive 
them  past  the  springs.  And  only  half  understand 
ing  his  character — fine  where  she  was  obtuse,  sen 
sitive  where  she  was  invulnerable,  she  felt  the 
continued  withdrawal  from  him,  the  instinctive 
shrinking  from  the  man  who  was  not  her  mate. 

She  had  silently  acquiesced  in  the  idea,  enter 
tained  by  all  the  train,  that  she  would  marry  him. 
The  doctor  had  intimated  to  her  that  he  wished  it 
and  from  her  childhood  her  only  real  religion  had 
been  to  please  her  father.  Yet  half  a  dozen  times 
she  had  stopped  the  proposal  on  the  lover's  lips. 
And  not  from  coquetry  either.  Loth  and  reluctant 
she  clung  to  her  independence.  A  rival  might  have 
warmed  her  to  a  more  coming-on  mood,  but  there 
was  no  rival.  When  by  silence  or  raillery  she  had 
shut  off  the  avowal  she  was  relieved  and  yet  half 
despised  him  for  permitting  her  to  take  the  lead. 

119 


The  Emigrant  Trail 

Why  had  he  not  forced  her  to  listen?  Why  had 
he  not  seized  her  and  even  if  she  struggled,  held 
her  and  made  her  hear  him?  She  knew  little  of 
men,  nothing'  of  love,  but  she  felt,  without  putting 
her  thoughts  even  to  herself,  that  to  a  man  who 
showed  her  he  was  master  she  would  have  listened 
and  surrendered. 

Riding  back  to  the  camp  she  felt  a  trifle  remorse 
ful  about  her  behavior.  Some  day  she  would  marry 
him — she  had  got  far  enough  to  admit  that — and 
perhaps  it  was  unkind  of  her  not  to  let  the  matter 
be  settled.  And  at  that  she  gave  a  petulant  wriggle 
of  her  shoulders  under  her  cotton  blouse.  Wasn't 
that  his  business?  Wasn't  he  the  one  to  end  it, 
not  wait  on  her  pleasure?  Were  all  men  so  easily 
governed,  she  wondered. 

Looking  ahead  across  the  grassed  bottom  land, 
she  saw  that  the  train  had  halted  and  the  camp  was 
pitched.  She  could  see  David's  tall  stooping  figure, 
moving  with  long  strides  between  the  tents  and  the 
wagons.  She  laid  a  wager  with  herself  that  he 
would  do  certain  things  and  brought  her  horse  to 
a  walk  that  she  might  come  upon  him  noiselessly 
and  watch.  Of  course  he  did  them,  built  up  her 
fire  and  kindled  it,  arranged  her  skillets  beside  it 
and  had  a  fresh  pail  of  water  standing  close  by.  It 
only  remained  for  him  to  turn  as  he  heard  the 
sound  of  her  horse's  hoofs  and  run  to  help  her  dis 
mount.  This,  for  some  reason,  he  did  not  do  and 
she  was  forced  to  attract  his  attention  by  saying  in 
a  loud  voice : 

1 20 


The  River 

"  There  was  nothing  to  be  seen.  Not  a  sign  of 
a  wagon  from  here  to  the  horizon." 

He  looked  up  from  his  cooking  and  said :  "  Oh, 
you're  back,  Susan,"  and  returned  to  the  pan  of 
buffalo  tallow. 

This  was  a  strange  remissness  in  the  slave  and 
she  was  piqued.  Contrary  to  precedent  it  was  her 
father  who  helped  her  off.  She  slid  into  his  arms 
laughing,  trying  to  kiss  him  as  she  slipped  down, 
then  standing  with  her  hands  on  his  shoulders  told 
him  of  her  ride.  She  was  very  pretty  just  then, 
her  hair  loose  on  her  sunburned  brow,  her  face  all 
love  and  smiles.  But  David  bent  over  his  fire,  did 
not  raise  his  eyes  to  the  charming  tableau,  that  had 
its  own  delightfulness  to  the  two  participants,  and 
that  one  of  the  participants  intended  should  show 
him  how  sweet  Susan  Gillespie  could  be  when  she 
wanted. 

All  of  which  trivial  matter  combined  to  the  mak 
ing  of  momentous  matter,  momentous  in  the  future 
for  Susan  and  David.  Shaken  in  her  confidence  in 
the  subjugation  of  her  slave,  Susan  agreed  to  his 
suggestion  to  ride  to  the  bluffs  after  supper  and  see 
the  plains  under  the  full  moon.  So  salutary  had 
been  his  momentary  neglect  of  her  that  she  went  in 
a  chastened  spirit,  a  tamed  and  gentle  maiden. 
They  had  orders  not  to  pass  out  of  sight  of  the  twin 
fires  whose  light  followed  them  like  the  beams  of 
two,  watchful,  unwinking  eyes. 

They  rode  across  the  bottom  to  where  the  bluffs 
rose,  a  broken  bulwark.  That  afternoon  Susan  had 

121 


The  Emigrant  Trail 

found  a  ravine  up  which  they  could  pass.  She 
knew  it  by  a  dwarfed  tree,  a  landmark  in  the  naked 
country.  The  moonlight  lay  white  on  the  barrier 
indented  with  gulfs  of  darkness,  from  each  of 
which  ran  the  narrow  path  of  the  buffalo.  The  line 
of  hills,  silver-washed  and  black-caverned,  was  like 
a  rampart  thrown  across  the  entrance  to  the  land  of 
mystery,  and  they  like  the  pygmy  men  of  fairyland 
come  to  gain  an  entry.  It  was  David  who  thought 
of  this.  It  reminded  him  of  Jack  and  the  Bean 
stalk,  where  Jack,  reaching  the  top  of  the  vine, 
found  himself  in  a  strange  country.  Susan  did  not 
remember  much  about  Jack.  She  was  engrossed  in 
recognizing  the  ravine,  scanning  the  darkling  hol 
lows  for  the  dwarf  tree. 

It  was  a  steep,  winding  cut,  the  tree,  halfway  up 
its  length,  spreading  skeleton  arms  against  a  sky 
clear  as  a  blue  diamond.  They  turned  into  it  and 
began  a  scrambling  ascent,  the  horses'  hoofs  slip 
ping  into  the  gutter  that  the  buffaloes  had  trodden 
out.  It  was  black  dark  in  the  depths  with  the 
moonlight  slanting  white  on  the  walls. 

"  We're  going  now  to  find  the  giants,"  David 
called  over  his  shoulder.  "  Doesn't  this  seem  as  if 
it  ought  to  lead  us  up  right  in  front  of  Blunder- 
bore's  Castle?" 

"  The  buffalo  runs  are  like  trenches,"  she  an 
swered.  "  If  you  don't  look  out  your  horse  may 
fall." 

They  tied  their  horses  to  the  tree  and  climbed  on 
foot  to  the  levels  above.  On  the  earth's  floor,  un- 

122 


The  River 

broken  by  tree  or  elevation,  there  was  not  a  shadow. 
It  lay  silver  frosted  in  the  foreground,  darkening  as 
it  receded.  In  the  arch  above  no  cloud  filmed  the 
clearness,  the  moon,  huge  and  mottled,  dominating 
the  sky.  The  silence  was  penetrating;  not  a  breath 
or  sound  disturbed  it.  It  was  the  night  of  the 
primitive  world,  which  stirred  the  savage  to  a  sense 
of  the  infinite  and  made  him,  from  shell  or  clay  or 
stone,  carve  out  a  God. 

Without  speaking  they  walked  forward  to  a  jut 
ting  point  and  looked  down  on  the  river.  The  cur 
rent  sparkled  like  a  dancer's  veil  spread  on  the 
grass.  They  could  not  hear  its  murmur  or  see  the 
shifting  disturbance  of  its  shallows,  only  received 
the  larger  impression  of  the  flat,  gleaming  tide  split 
by  the  black  shapes  of  islands.  David  pointed  to 
the  two  sparks  of  the  camp  fires. 

"  See,  they're  looking  after  us  as  if  they  were 
alive  and  knew  they  mustn't  lose  sight  of  us." 

"  They  look  quite  red  in  the  moonlight,"  she  an 
swered,  interested. 

"  As  if  they  belonged  to  man  and  a  drop  of  hu 
man  blood  had  colored  them." 

"  What  a  queer  idea.  Let's  walk  on  along  the 
bluffs." 

They  turned  and  moved  away  from  the  lights, 
slipping  down  into  the  darkness  of  the  channeled 
ravines  and  emerging  onto  the  luminous  highlands. 
The  solemnity  of  the  night,  its  brooding  aloofness 
in  which  they  held  so  small  a  part,  chilled  the  girl's 
high  self-reliance.  Among  her  fellows,  in  a  setting 

123 


The  Emigrant  Trail 

of  light  and  action,  she  was  all  proud  independence. 
Deprived  of  them  she  suffered  a  diminution  of  con 
fidence  and  became  if  not  clinging,  at  least  a  fem 
inine  creature  who  might  some  day  be  won.  Feel 
ing  small  and  lonely  she  insensibly  drew  closer  to 
the  man  beside  her,  at  that  moment  the  only  con 
necting  link  between  her  and  the  living  world  with 
which  her  liens  were  so  close. 

The  lover  felt  the  change  in  her,  knew  that  the 
barrier  she  had  so  persistently  raised  was  down. 
They  were  no  longer  mistress  and  slave,  but  man 
and  maid.  The  consciousness  of  it  gave  him  a  new 
boldness.  The  desperate  daring  of  the  suitor  car 
ried  him  beyond  his  familiar  tremors,  his  dread  of 
defeat.  He  thrust  his  hand  inside  her  arm,  timidly, 
it  is  true,  ready  to  snatch  it  back  at  the  first  rebuff. 
But  there  was  none,  so  he  kept  it  there  and  they 
walked  on.  Their  talk  was  fragmentary,  mur 
mured  sentences  that  they  forgot  to  finish,  phrases 
trailing  off  into  silence  as  if  they  had  not  clear 
enough  wits  to  fit  words  together,  or  as  if  words 
were  not  necessary  when  at  last  their  spirits  com 
muned.  Responding  to  the  instigation  of  the  ro 
mantic  hour  the  young  girl  felt  an  almost  sleepy 
content.  The  arm  on  which  she  leaned  spoke  of 
strength,  it  symbolized  a  protection  she  would  have 
repudiated  in  the  practical,  sustaining  sunshine,  but 
that  now  was  very  sweet. 

David  walked  in  a  vision.  Was  it  Susan,  this 
soft  and  docile  being,  close  against  his  side,  her 
head  moving  slowly  as  her  eyes  ranged  over  the 

124 


The  River 

magical  prospect?  He  was  afraid  to  speak  for  fear 
the  spell  would  break.  He  did  not  know  which 
way  his  feet  bore  him,  but  blindly  went  on,  look 
ing  down  at  the  profile  almost  against  his  shoulder, 
at  the  hand  under  which  his  had  slid,  small  and 
white  in  the  transforming  light.  His  silence  was 
not  like  hers,  the  expression  of  a  temporary,  lulled 
tranquility.  He  had  passed  the  stage  when  he 
could  delay  to  rejoice  in  lovely  moments.  He  was 
no  longer  the  man  fearful  of  the  hazards  of  his 
fate,  but  a  vessel  of  sense  ready  to  overflow  at  the 
slightest  touch. 

It  came  when  a  ravine  opened  at  their  feet  and 
she  drew  herself  from  him  to  gather  up  her  skirts 
for  the  descent.  Then  the  tension  broke  with  a 
tremulous  "  Susan,  wait !  "  She  knew  what  was 
coming  and  braced  herself  to  meet  it.  The  mystical 
hour,  the  silver-bathed  wonder  of  the  night,  a  girl's 
frightened  curiosity,  combined  to  win  her  to  a 
listening  mood.  She  felt  on  the  eve  of  a  painful 
but  necessary  ordeal,  and  clasped  her  hands  to 
gether  to  bear  it  creditably.  Through  the  per 
turbation  of  her  mind  the  question  flashed — Did  all 
women  feel  this  wray?  and  then  the  comment,  How 
much  they  had  to  endure  that  they  never  told ! 

It  was  the  first  time  any  man  had  made  the  great 
demand  of  her.  She  had  read  of  it  in  novels  and 
other  girls  had  told  her.  From  this  data  she  had 
gathered  that  it  was  a  happy  if  disturbing  experi 
ence.  She  felt  only  the  disturbance.  Seldom  in 
her  life  had  she  experienced  so  distracting  a  sense 

125 


The  Emigrant  Trail 

of  discomfort.  When  David  was  half  way  through 
she  would  have  given  anything  to  have  stopped 
him,  or  to  have  run  away.  But  she  was  determined 
now  to  stand  it,  to  go  through  with  it  and  be  en 
gaged  as  other  girls  were  and  as  her  father  wished 
her  to  be.  Besides  there  was  nowhere  to  run  to 
and  she  could  not  have  stopped  him  if  she  had  tried. 
He  was  launched,  the  hour  had  come,  the,  to  him, 
supreme  and  awful  hour,  and  all  the  smothered  pas 
sion  and  hope  and  yearning  of  the  past  month  burst 
out. 

Once  she  looked  at  him  and  immediately  looked 
away,  alarmed  and  abashed  by  his  appearance. 
Even  in  the  faint  light  she  could  see  his  pallor,  the 
drops  on  his  brow,  the  drawn  desperation  of  his 
face.  She  had  never  in  her  life  seen  anyone  so 
moved  and  she  began  to  share  his  agitation  and 
wish  that  anything  might  happen  to  bring  the  inter 
view  to  an  end. 

"  Do  you  care  ?  Do  you  care  ?  "  he  urged,  try 
ing  to  look  into  her  face.  She  held  it  down,  not 
so  much  from  modesty  as  from  an  aversion  to  see 
ing  him  so  beyond  himself,  and  stammered: 

"  Of  course  I  care.  I  always  have.  Quite  a 
great  deal.  You  know  it." 

"  I  never  knew/'  he  cried.  "  I  never  was  sure. 
Sometimes  I  thought  so  and  the  next  day  you  were 
all  different.  Say  you  do.  Oh,  Susan,  say  you 
do." 

He  was  as  close  to  her  as  he  could  get  without 
touching  her,  which,  the  question  now  fairly  put, 

126 


The  River 

he  carefully  avoided  doing.  Taller  than  she  he 
loomed  over  her,  bending  for  her  answer,  quivering 
and  sweating  in  his  anxiety. 

The  young  girl  was  completely  subdued  by  him. 
She  was  frightened,  not  of  the  man,  but  of  the 
sudden  revelation  of  forces  which  she  did  not  in 
the  least  comprehend  and  which  made  him  another 
person.  Though  she  vaguely  understood  that  she 
still  dominated  him,  she  saw  that  her  dominion  came 
from  something  much  more  subtle  than  verbal  com 
mand  and  imperious  bearing.  All  confusion  and 
bewildered  meekness,  she  melted,  partly  because  she 
had  meant  to,  partly  because  his  vehemence  over 
powered  her,  and  partly  because  she  wanted  to  end 
the  most  trying  scene  she  had  ever  been  through. 

"  Will  you  say  yes?  Oh,  you  must  say  yes,"  she 
heard  him  imploring,  and  she  emitted  the  monosyl 
lable  on  a  caught  breath  and  then  held  her  head 
even  lower  and  felt  an  aggrieved  amazement  that  it 
was  all  so  different  from  what  she  had  thought  it 
would  be. 

He  gave  an  exclamation,  a  sound  almost  of 
pain,  and  drew  away  from  her.  She  glanced  up  at 
him,  her  eyes  full  of  scared  curiosity,  not  knowing 
what  extraordinary  thing  was  going  to  happen 
next.  He  had  dropped  his  face  into  his  hands,  and 
stood  thus  for  a  moment  without  moving.  She 
peered  at  him  uneasily,  like  a  child  at  some  one  suf 
fering  from  an  unknown  complaint  and  giving  evi 
dence  of  the  suffering  in  strange  ways.  He  let  his 
hands  fall,  closed  his  eyes  for  a  second,  then  opened 

127 


The  Emigrant  Trail 

them  and  came  toward  her  with  his  face  beatified. 
Delicately,  almost  reverently,  he  bent  down  and 
touched  her  cheek  with  his  lips. 

The  lover's  first  kiss!  This,  too,  Susan  had 
heard  about,  and  from  what  she  had  heard  she  had 
imagined  that  it  was  a  wonderful  experience  caus 
ing  unprecedented  joy.  She  was  nearly  as  agitated 
as  he,  but  through  her  agitation,  she  realized  with 
keen  disappointment  that  she  had  felt  nothing  in 
the  least  resembling  joy.  An  inward  shrinking  as 
the  bearded  lips  came  in  contact  with  her  skin  was 
all  she  was  conscious  of.  There  was  no  rapture, 
no  up-gush  of  anything  lovely  or  unusual.  In  fact, 
it  left  her  with  the  feeling  that  it  was  a  duty  duly 
discharged  and  accepted — this  that  she  had  heard 
was  one  of  life's  crises,  that  you  looked  back  on 
from  the  heights  of  old  age  and  told  your  grand 
children  about. 

They  were  silent  for  a  moment,  the  man  so  filled 
and  charged  with  feeling  that  he  had  no  breath  to 
speak,  no  words,  if  he  had  had  breath,  to  express 
the  passion  that  was  in  him.  Inexperienced  as  she, 
he  thought  it  sweet  and  beautiful  that  she  should 
stand  away  from  him  with  averted  face.  He  gazed 
at  her  tenderly,  wonderingly,  won,  but  still  a  thing 
too  sacred  for  his  touch. 

Susan,  not  knowing  what  to  do  and  feeling 
blankly  that  something  momentous  had  happened 
and  that  she  had  not  risen  to  it,  continued  to  look 
on  the  ground.  She  wished  he  would  say  some 
thing  simple  and  natural  and  break  the  intolerable 

128 


The  River 

silence.  Finally,  she  felt  that  she  could  endure  it  no 
longer,  and  putting  her  hand  to  her  forehead, 
pushed  back  her  hair  and  heaved  a  deep  sigh.  He 
instantly  moved  to  her  all  brooding,  possessive  in 
quiry.  She  became  alarmed  lest  he  meant  to  kiss 
her  again  and  edged  away  from  him,  exclaiming 
hastily : 

"  Shall  we  go  back  ?  We've  been  a  long  time 
away." 

Without  speech  he  slid  his  hand  into  the  crook 
of  her  arm  and  they  began  to  retrace  their  steps. 
She  could  feel  his  heart  beating  and  the  warm, 
sinewy  grasp  of  his  fingers  clasped  about  hers. 
The  plain  was  a  silver  floor  for  their  feet,  in  the 
starless  sky  the  great  orb  soared.  The  girl's  em 
barrassment  left  her  and  she  felt  herself  peacefully 
settling  into  a  contented  acquiescence.  She  looked 
up  at  him,  a  tall  shape,  black  between  her  and  the 
moon.  Her  glance  called  his  and  he  gazed  down 
into  her  eyes,  a  faint  smile  on  his  lips.  His  arm 
w-as  strong,  the  way  was  strangely  beautiful,  and 
in  the  white  light  and  the  stillness,  romance  walked 
with  them. 

There  was  no  talk  between  them  till  they  reached 
the  horses.  In  the  darkness  of  the  cleft,  hidden 
from  the  searching  radiance,  he  drew  her  to  him, 
pressing  her  head  with  a  trembling  hand  against  his 
heart.  She  endured  it  patiently  but  was  glad  when 
he  let  her  go  and  she  wras  in  the  saddle,  a  place 
where  she  felt  more  at  home  than  in  a  man's  arms 
with  her  face  crushed  against  his  shirt,  turning  to 

129 


The  Emigrant  Trail 

avoid  its  rough  texture  and  uncomfortably  con 
scious  of  the  hardness  of  his  lean  breast.  She  de 
cided  not  to  speak  to  him  again,  for  she  was  afraid 
he  might  break  forth  into  those  protestations  of 
love  that  so  embarrassed  her. 

At  the  camp  Daddy  John  was  up,  sitting  by  the 
fire,  waiting  for  them.  Of  this,  too,  she  was  glad. 
Good-bys  between  lovers,  even  if  only  to  be  separ 
ated  by  a  night,  were  apt  to  contain  more  of  that 
distressful  talk.  She  called  a  quick  "  Good  night " 
to  him,  and  then  dove  into  her  tent  and  sat  down  on 
the  blankets.  The  firelight  shone  a  nebulous  blotch 
through  the  canvas  and  she  stared  at  it,  trying  to 
concentrate  her  thoughts  and  realize  that  the  great 
event  had  happened. 

"  I'm  engaged,"  she  kept  saying  to  herself,  and 
waited  for  the  rapture,  which,  even  if  belated, 
ought  surely  to  come.  But  it  did  not.  The  words 
obstinately  refused  to  convey  any  meaning,  brought 
nothing  to  her  but  a  mortifying  sensation  of  being 
inadequate  to  a  crisis.  She  heard  David's  voice 
exchanging  a  low  good  night  with  the  old  man,  and 
she  hearkened  anxiously,  still  hopeful  of  the  thrill. 
But  again  there  was  none,  and  she  could  only  gaze 
at  the  blurred  blot  of  light  and  whisper  "  I'm  en 
gaged  to  be  married,"  and  wonder  what  was  the 
matter  with  her  that  she  should  feel  just  the  same 
as  she  did  before. 


130 


CHAPTER    IV 

THE  dawn  was  gray  when  Susan  woke  the  next 
morning.  It  was  cold  and  she  cowered  under  her 
blankets,  watching  the  walls  of  the  tent  grow  light, 
and  the  splinter  between  the  flaps  turn  from  white 
to  yellow.  She  came  to  consciousness  quickly, 
waking  to  an  unaccustomed  depression. 

At  first  it  had  no  central  point  of  cause,  but  was 
reasonless  and  all-permeating  like  the  depression 
that  comes  from  an  unlocated  physical  ill.  Her 
body  lay  limp  under  the  blankets  as  her  mind  lay 
limp  under  the  unfamiliar  cloud.  Then  the  mem 
ory  of  last  night  took  form,  her  gloom  suddenly 
concentrated  on  a  reason,  and  she  sunk  beneath  it, 
staring  fixedly  at  the  crack  of  growing  light.  When 
she  heard  the  camp  stirring  and  sat  up,  her  heart 
felt  so  heavy  that  she  pressed  on  it  with  her  finger 
tips  as  if  half  expecting  they  might  encounter  a 
strange,  new  hardness  through  the  soft  envelope 
of  her  body. 

She  did  not  know  that  this  lowering  of  her  crest, 
hitherto  held  so  high  and  carried  so  proudly,  was 
the  first  move  of  her  surrender.  Her  liberty  was 
over,  she  was  almost  in  the  snare.  The  strong 
feminine  principle  in  her  impelled  her  like  an  in 
exorable  fate  toward  marriage  and  the  man.  The 


The  Emigrant  Trail 

children  that  were  to  be,  urged  her  toward  their 
creator.  And  the  unconquered  maidenhood  that 
was  still  hers,  recoiled  with  trembling  reluctance 
from  its  demanded  death.  Love  had  not  yet  come 
to  lead  her  into  a  new  and  wonderful  world.  She 
only  felt  the  sense  of  strangeness  and  fear,  of  leav 
ing  the  familiar  ways  to  enter  new  ones  that  led 
through  shadows  to  the  unknown. 

When  she  rode  out  beside  her  father  in  the  red 
splendors  of  the  morning,  a  new  gravity  marked 
her.  Already  the  first  suggestion  of  the  woman — 
like  the  first  breath  of  the  season's  change — was  on 
her  face.  The  humility  of  the  great  abdication  was 
in  her  eyes. 

David  left  them  together  and  rode  away  to  the 
bluffs.  She  followed  his  figure  with  a  clouded 
glance  as  she  told  her  father  her  news.  Her  de 
pression  lessened  when  he  turned  upon  her  with  a 
radiant  face. 

"  If  you  had  searched  the  world  over  you 
couldn't  have  found  a  man  to  please  me  better. 
Seeing  David  this  way,  day  by  day,  I've  come  to 
know  him  through  and  through  and  he's  true, 
straight  down  to  the  core." 

"  Of  course  he  is,"  she  answered,  tilting  her  chin 
with  the  old  sauciness  that  this  morning  looked  a 
little  forlorn.  "  I  wouldn't  have  liked  him  if  he 
hadn't  been." 

"  Oh,  Missy,  you're  such  a  wise  little  woman." 

She  glanced  at  him  quickly,  recognizing  the  tone, 
and  to-day,  with  her  new  heavy  heart,  dreading  it. 

132 


The  River 

"  Now,  father,  don't  laugh  at  me.  This  is  all 
very  serious." 

"  Serious !  It's  the  most  serious  thing  that  ever 
happened  in  the  world,  in  our  world.  And  if  I  was 
smiling — I'll  lay  a  wager  I  wasn't  laughing — it 
was  because  I'm  so  happy.  You  don't  know  what 
this  means  to  me.  I've  wanted  it  so  much  that  I've 
been  afraid  it  wasn't  coming  off.  And  then  I 
thought  it  must,  for  it's  my  girl's  happiness  and 
David's  and  back  of  theirs  mine." 

"  Well,  then,  if  you're  happy,  I'm  happy." 

This  time  his  smile  was  not  bantering,  only  lov 
ing  and  tender.  He  did  not.  dream  that  her  spirit 
might  not  be  as  glad  as  his  looking  from  the 
height  of  middle-age  to  a  secured  future.  He 
had  been  a  man  of  a  single  love,  ignorant  save 
of  that  one  woman,  and  she  so  worshiped  and 
wondered  at  that  there  had  been  no  time  to  un 
derstand  her.  Insulated  in  the  circle  of  his  own 
experience  he  did  not  guess  that  to  an  unawakened 
girl  the  engagement  morn  might  be  dark  with 
clouds. 

"  Love  and  youth,"  he  said  dreamily,  "  oh,  Su 
san,  it's  so  beautiful!  It's  Eden  come  again  when 
God  walked  in  the  garden.  And  it's  so  short.  Eheu 
Fugaces!  You've  just  begun  to  realize  how  won 
derful  it  is,  just  said  to  yourself  '  This  is  life — this 
is  what  I  was  born  for/  when  it's  over.  And  then 
you  begin  to  understand,  to  look  back,  and  see  that 
it  was  not  what  you  were  born  for.  It  was  only 
the  beginning  that  was  to  give  you  strength  for  the 

133 


The  Emigrant  Trail 

rest— the  prairie  all  trees  and  flowers,  with  the  sun 
light  and  the  breeze  on  the  grass." 

"  It  sounds  like  this  journey,  like  the  Emigrant 
Trail." 

"  That's  what  I  was  thinking.  The  beautiful 
start  gives  you  courage  for  the  mountains.  The 
memory  of  it  carries  you  over  the  rough  places, 
gives  you  life  in  your  heart  when  you  come  to  the 
desert  where  it's  all  parched  and  bare.  And  you 
and  your  companion  go  on,  fighting  against  the 
hardships,  bound  closer  and  closer  by  the  struggle. 
You  learn  to  give  up,  to  think  of  the  other  one,  and 
then  you  say,  '  This  is  what  I  was  born  for/  and 
you  know  you're  getting  near  the  truth.  To  have 
some  one  to  go  through  the  fight  for,  to  do  the 
hard  work  for — that's  the  reality  after  the  vision 
and  the  dream." 

The  doctor,  thinking  of  the  vanished  years  of 
his  married  life,  and  his  daughter,  of  the  unknown 
ones  coming,  were  not  looking  at  the  subject  from 
the  same  points  of  view. 

"  I  don't  think  you  make  it  sound  very  pleasant," 
she  said,  from  returning  waves  of  melancholy. 
"  It's  nothing  but  hardships  and  danger." 

"  California's  at  the  end  of  it,  dearie,  and  they 
say  that's  the  most  beautiful  country  in  the  world." 

"  It  will  be  a  strange  country,"  she  said  wist 
fully,  not  thinking  alone  of  California. 

"  Not  for  long." 

"  Do  you  think  we'll  ever  feel  at  home  in  it  ?  " 

The  question  came  in  a  faint  voice.     Why  did 
134 


The  River 

California,  once  the  goal  of  her  dreams,  now  seem 
an  alien  land  in  which  she  always  would  be  a 
stranger  ? 

"  We're  bringing  our  home  with  us — carrying 
some  of  it  on  our  backs  like  snails  and  the  rest  in 
our  hearts  like  all  pioneers.  Soon  it  will  cease 
being  strange,  when  there  are  children  in  it.  Where 
there's  a  camp  fire  and  a  blanket  and  a  child,  that's 
home,  Missy." 

He  leaned  toward  her  and  laid  his  hand  on  hers 
as  it  rested  on  the  pommel. 

"  You'll  be  so  happy  in  it,"  he  said  softly. 

A  sudden  surge  of  feeling,  more  poignant  than 
anything  she  had  yet  felt,  sent  a  pricking  of  tears 
to  her  eyes.  She  turned  her  face  away,  longing  in 
sudden  misery  for  some  one  to  whom  she  could 
speak  plainly,  some  one  who  once  had  felt  as  she 
did  now.  For  the  first  time  she  wished  that  there 
was  another  woman  in  the  train.  Her  instinct  told 
her  that  men  could  not  understand.  Unable  to  bear 
her  father's  glad  assurance  she  said  a  hasty  word 
about  going  back  and  telling  Daddy  John  and 
wheeled  her  horse  toward  the  prairie  schooner  be 
hind  them. 

Daddy  John  welcomed  her  by  pushing  up  against 
the  roof  prop  and  giving  her  two  thirds  of  the 
driver's  seat.  With  her  hands  clipped  between  her 
knees  she  eyed  him  sideways. 

"What  do  you  think's  going  to  happen?"  she 
said,  trying  to  compose  her  spirits  by  teasing 
him. 

135 


The  Emigrant  Trail 

"  It's  going  to  rain,"  he  answered. 

This  was  not  helpful  or  suggestive  of  future 
sympathy,  but  at  any  rate,  it  was  not  emotional. 

"  Now,  Daddy  John,  don't  be  silly.  Would  I  get 
off  my  horse  and  climb  up  beside  you  to  ask  you 
about  the  weather  ?  " 

"  I  don't  know  what  you'd  do,  Missy,  you've  got 
that  wild  out  here  on  the  plains — just  like  a  little 
buffalo  calf." 

He  glimpsed  obliquely  at  her,  his  old  face  full  of 
whimsical  tenderness.  She  smiled  bravely  and  he 
saw  above  the  smile,  her  eyes,  untouched  by  it.  He 
instantly  became  grave. 

"  Well,  what's  goin'  to  happen  ?  "  he  asked  so 
berly. 

"  I'm  going  to  be  married." 

He  raised  his  eyebrows  and  gave  a  whistle. 

"That  is  somethin'!     And  which  is  it?" 

"  What  a  question !  David,  of  course.  Who  else 
could  it  be  ?  " 

"  Well,  he's  the  best,"  he  spoke  slowly,  with  con 
sidering  phlegm.  "  He's  a  first-rate  boy  as  far  as 
he  goes." 

"  I  don't  think  that's  a  very  nice  way  to  speak  of 
him.  Can't  you  say  something  better  ?  " 

The  old  man  looked  over  the  mules'  backs  for  a 
moment  of  inward  cogitation.  He  was  not  sur 
prised  at  the  news  but  he  was  surprised  at  some 
thing  in  his  Missy's  manner,  a  lack  of  the  joyful- 
ness,  that  he,  too,  had  thought  an  attribute  of  all 
intending  brides. 

136 


The  River 

"  He's  a  good  boy,"  he  said  thoughtfully.  "  No 
one  can  say  he  ain't.  But  some  way  or  other,  I'd 
rather  have  had  a  bigger  man  for  you,  Missy." 

"  Bigger !  "  she  exclaimed  indignantly.  "  He's 
nearly  six  feet.  And  girls  don't  pick  out  their  hus 
bands  because  of  their  height." 

"  I  ain't  meant  it  that  way.  Bigger  in  what's  in 
him — can  get  hold  o'  more,  got  a  bigger  reach." 

"  I  don't  know  what  you  mean.  If  you're  trying 
to  say  he's  not  got  a  big  mind  you're  all  wrong.  He 
knows  more  than  anybody  I  ever  met  except  father. 
He's  read  hundreds  and  hundreds  of  books." 

"  That's  it — too  many  books.  Books  is  good 
enough  but  they  ain't  the  right  sort  'er  meat  for  a 
feller  that's  got  to  hit  out  for  himself  in  a  new 
country.  They're  all  right  in  the  city  where  you 
got  the  butcher  and  the  police  and  a  kerosene  lamp 
to  read  'em  by.  David  'ud  be  a  fine  boy  in  the  town 
just  as  his  books  is  suitable  in  the  town.  But  this 
ain't  the  town.  And  the  men  that  are  the  right 
kind  out  here  ain't  particularly  set  on  books.  I'd  'a' 
chose  a  harder  feller  for  you,  Missy,  that  could 
have  stood  up  to  anything  and  didn't  have  no  soft 
feelings  to  hamper  him." 

"  Rubbish,"  she  snapped.  "  Why  don't  you  en 
courage  me  ?  " 

Her  tone  drew  his  eyes,  sharp  as  a  squirrel's  and 
charged  with  quick  concern.  Her  face  was  partly 
turned  away.  The  curve  of  her  cheek  was  devoid 
of  its  usual  dusky  color,  her  fingers  played  on  her 
under  lip  as  if  it  were  a  little  flute. 

137 


The  Emigrant  Trail 

"  What  do  you  want  to  be  encouraged  for  ?  "  he 
said  low,  as  if  afraid  of  being  overheard. 

She  did  not  move  her  head,  but  looked  at  the 
bluffs. 

"  I  don't  know/'  she  answered,  then  hearing  her 
voice  hoarse  cleared  her  throat.  "  It's  all — so — so 
—sort  of  new.  I — I — feel — I  don't  know  just  how 
— I  think  it's  homesick." 

Her  voice  broke  in  a  bursting  sob.  Her  control 
gone,  her  pride  fell  with  it.  Wheeling  on  the  seat 
she  cast  upon  him  a  look  of  despairing  appeal. 

"  Oh,  Daddy  John/'  was  all  she  could  gasp,  and 
then  bent  her  head  so  that  her  hat  might  hide  the 
shame  of  her  tears. 

He  looked  at  her  for  a  nonplused  moment,  at 
her  brown  arms  bent  over  her  shaken  bosom,  at  the 
shield  of  her  broken  hat.  He  was  thoroughly  dis 
comfited  for  he  had  not  the  least  idea  what  was 
the  matter.  Then  he  shifted  the  reins  to  his  left 
hand  and  edging  near  her  laid  his  right  on  her 
knee. 

"  Don't  you  want  to  marry  him?  "  he  said  gently. 

"  It  isn't  that,  it's  something  else." 

"  What  else  ?  You  can  say  anything  you  like 
to  me.  Ain't  I  carried  you  when  you  were  a 
baby?" 

"  I  don't  know  what  it  is."  Her  voice  came 
cut  by  sobbing  breaths.  "  I  don't  understand.  It's 
like  being  terribly  lonesome." 

The  old  frontiersman  had  no  remedy  ready  for 
this  complaint.  He,  too,  did  not  understand. 

138 


The  River 

"  Don't  you  marry  him  if  you  don't  like  him," 
he  said.  "  If  you  want  to  tell  him  so  and  you're 
afraid,  I'll  do  it  for  you." 

"  I  do  like  him.     It's  not  that." 

"  Well,  then,  what's  making  you  cry  ?  " 

"  Something  else,  something  way  down  deep  that 
makes  everything  seem  so  far  away  and  strange." 

He  leaned  forward  and  spat  over  the  wheel,  then 
subsided  against  the  roof  prop. 

"Are  you  well?"  he  said,  his  imagination  ex 
hausted. 

"  Yes,  very." 

Daddy  John  looked  at  the  backs  of  the  mules. 
The  off  leader  was  a  capricious  female  by  name 
Julia  who  required  more  management  and  coaxing 
than  the  other  five  put  together,  and  whom  he  loved 
beyond  them  all.  In  his  bewildered  anxiety  the 
thought  passed  through  his  mind  that  all  creatures 
of  the  feminine  gender,  animal  or  human,  were 
governed  by  laws  inscrutable  to  the  male,  who 
might  never  aspire  to  comprehension  and  could 
only  strive  to  please  and  placate. 

A  footfall  struck  on  his  ear  and,  thrusting  his 
head  beyond  the  canvas  hood,  he  saw  Leff  loafing  up 
from  the  rear. 

"  Saw  her  come  in  here,"  thought  the  old  man, 
drawing  his  head  in,  "  and  wants  to  hang  round 
and  snoop." 

Since  the  Indian  episode  he  despised  Leff.  His 
contempt  was  unveiled,  for  the  country  lout  who 
had  shown  himself  a  coward  had  dared  to  raise  his 

139 


The  Emigrant  Trail 

eyes  to  the  one  star  in  Daddy  John's  firmament. 
He  would  not  have  hidden  his  dislike  if  he  could, 
Leff  was  of  the  outer  world  to  which  he  relegated 
all  men  who  showed  fear  or  lied. 

He  turned  to  Susan : 

"  Go  back  in  the  wagon  and  lie  down.  Here 
comes  Leff  and  I  don't  want  him  to  see  you." 

The  young  girl  thought  no  better  of  Leff  than  he 
did.  The  thought  of  being  viewed  in  her  abandon 
ment  by  the  despised  youth  made  her  scramble  into 
the  back  of  the  wagon  where  she  lay  concealed  on  a 
pile  of  sacks.  In  the  forward  opening  where  the 
canvas  was  drawn  in  a  circle  round  a  segment  of 
sky,  Daddy  John's  figure  fitted  like  a  picture  in 
a  circular  frame.  As  a  step  paused  at  the  wheel 
she  saw  him  lean  forward  and  heard  his  rough 
tones. 

"  Yes,  she's  here,  asleep  in  the  back  of  the 
wagon." 

Then  Leff's  voice,  surprised : 

"  Asleep  ?  Why,  it  ain't  an  hour  since  we 
started." 

:'  Well,  can't  she  go  to  sleep  in  the  morning  if 
she  wants?  Don't  you  go  to  sleep  every  Sunday 
under  the  wagon  ?  " 

"  Yes,  but  that's  afternoon." 

"  Mebbe,  but  everybody's  not  as  slow  as  you  at 
getting  at  what  they  want." 

This  appeared  to  put  Susan's  retirement  in  a 
light  that  gave  rise  to  pondering.  There  was  a 
pause,  then  came  the  young  man's  heavy  footsteps 

140 


The  River 

slouching  back  to  his  wagon.     Daddy  John  settled 
down  on  the  seat. 

"  I'm  almighty  glad  it  weren't  him,  Missy,"  he 
said,  over  his  shoulder.  "  I'd  'a'  known  then  why 
you  cried." 


141 


CHAPTER    V 

LATE  the  same  day  Left",  who  had  been  riding  on 
the  bluffs,  came  down  to  report  a  large  train  a  few 
miles  ahead  of  them.  It  was  undoubtedly  the  long- 
looked-for  New  York  Company. 

The  news  was  as  a  tonic  to  their  slackened  ener 
gies.  A  cheering  excitement  ran  through  the  train. 
There  was  stir  and  loud  talking.  Its  contagion 
lifted  Susan's  spirits  and  with  her  father  she  rode 
on  in  advance,  straining  her  eyes  against  the  glare 
of  the  glittering  river.  Men  and  women,  who  daily 
crowded  by  them  unnoted  on  city  streets,  now 
loomed  in  the  perspective  as  objective  points  of 
avid  interest.  No  party  Susan  had  ever  been  to 
called  forth  such  hopeful  anticipation.  To  see  her 
fellows,  to  talk  with  women  over  trivial  things,  to 
demand  and  give  out  the  human  sympathies  she 
wanted  and  that  had  lain  withering  within  herself, 
drew  her  from  the  gloom  under  which  she  had  lain 
weeping  in  the  back  of  Daddy  John's  wagon. 

They  were  nearing  the  Forks  of  the  Platte  where 
the  air  was  dryly  transparent  and  sound  carried  far. 
While  yet  the  encamped  train  was  a  congeries  of 
broken  white  dots  on  the  river's  edge,  they  could 
hear  the  bark  of  a  dog  and  then  singing,  a  thin 
thread  of  melody  sent  aloft  by  a  woman's  voice. 

142 


The  River 

It  was  like  a  handclasp  across  space.  Drawing 
nearer  the  sounds  of  men  and  life  reached  forward 
to  meet  them — laughter,  the  neighing  of  horses,  the 
high,  broken  cry  of  a  child.  They  felt  as  if  they 
were  returning  to  a  home  they  had  left  and  that 
sometimes,  in  the  stillness  of  the  night  or  when 
vision  lost  itself  in  the  vague  distances,  they  still 
longed  for. 

The  train  had  shaped  itself  into  its  night  form, 
the  circular  coil  in  which  it  slept,  like  a  thick,  pale 
serpent  resting  after  the  day's  labors.  The  white 
arched  prairie  schooners  were  drawn  up  in  a  ring, 
the  defensive  bulwark  of  the  plains.  The  wheels, 
linked  together  by  the  yoke  chains,  formed  a  bar 
rier  against  Indian  attacks.  Outside  this  inter 
locked  rampart  was  a  girdle  of  fires,  that  gleamed 
through  the  twilight  like  a  chain  of  jewels  flung 
round  the  night's  bivouac.  It  shone  bright  on  the 
darkness  of  the  grass,  a  cordon  of  flame  that  some 
kindly  magician  had  drawn  about  the  resting  place 
of  the  tired  camp. 

With  the  night  pressing  on  its  edges  it  was  a 
tiny  nucleus  of  life  dropped  down  between  the  im 
memorial  plains  and  the  ancient  river.  Home  was 
here  in  the  pitched  tents,  a  hearthstone  in  the  flame 
lapping  on  the  singed  grass,  humanity  in  the  loud 
welcome  that  rose  to  meet  the  newcomers.  The 
doctor  had  known  but  one  member  of  the  Company, 
its  organizer,  a  farmer  from  the  Mohawk  Valley. 
But  the  men,  dropping  their  ox  yokes  and  water 
pails,  crowded  forward,  laughing  deep-mouthed 


The  Emigrant  Trail 

greetings  from  the  bush  of  their  beards,  and  ex 
tending  hands  as  hard  as  the  road  they  had  traveled. 

The  women  were  cooking.  Like  goddesses  of 
the  waste  places  they  stood  around  the  fires,  a  line 
of  half-defined  shapes.  Films  of  smoke  blew  across 
them,  obscured  and  revealed  them,  and  round  about 
them  savory  odors  rose.  Fat  spit  in  the  pans,  cof 
fee  bubbled  in  blackened  pots,  and  strips  of  buffalo 
meat  impaled  on  sticks  sent  a  dribble  of  flame  to  the 
heat.  The  light  was  strong  on  their  faces,  lifted  in 
greeting,  lips  smiling,  eyes  full  of  friendly  curi 
osity.  But  they  did  not  move  from  their  posts  for 
they  were  women  and  the  men  and  the  children 
were  waiting  to  be  fed. 

Most  of  them  were  middle-aged,  or  the  trail  had 
made  them  look  middle-aged.  A  few  were  very 
old.  Susan  saw  a  face  carved  with  seventy  years 
of  wrinkles  mumbling  in  the  framing  folds  of  a 
shawl.  Nearby,  sitting  on  the  dropped  tongue  of  a 
wagon,  a  girl  of  perhaps  sixteen,  sat  ruminant, 
nursing  a  baby.  Children  were  everywhere,  help 
ing,  fighting,  rolling  on  the  grass.  Babies  lay  on 
spread  blankets  with  older  babies  sitting  by  to 
watch.  It  was  the  woman's  hour.  The  day's 
march  was  over,  but  the  intimate  domestic  toil  was 
at  its  height.  The  home  makers  were  concentrated 
upon  their  share  of  the  activities — cooking  food, 
making  the  shelter  habitable,  putting  their  young  to 
bed. 

Separated  from  Susan  by  a  pile  of  scarlet  embers 
stood  a  young  girl,  a  large  spoon  in  her  hand.  The 

144 


The  River 

light  shot  upward  along  the  front  of  her  body, 
painting  with  an  even  red  glow  her  breast,  her  chin, 
the  under  side  of  her  nose  and  finally  transforming 
into  a  coppery  cloud  the  bright  confusion  of  her 
hair.  She  smiled  across  the  fire  and  said : 

"  I'm  glad  you've  come.  We've  been  watching 
for  you  ever  since  we  struck  the  Platte.  There 
aren't  any  girls  in  the  train.  I  and  my  sister  are 
the  youngest  except  Mrs.  Peebles  over  there,"  with 
a  nod  in  the  direction  of  the  girl  on  the  wagon 
tongue,  "  and  she's  married." 

The  woman  beside  her,  who  had  been  too  busy 
over  the  bacon  pan  to  raise  her  head,  now  straight 
ened  herself,  presenting  to  Susan's  eye  a  face  more 
buxom  and  mature  but  so  like  that  of  the  speaker 
that  it  was  evident  they  were  sisters.  A  band  of 
gold  gleamed  on  her  wedding  finger  and  her  short 
skirt  and  loose  calico  jacket  made  no  attempt  to 
hide  the  fact  that  another  baby  was  soon  to  be 
added  to  the  already  well-supplied  train.  She 
smiled  a  placid  greeting  and  her  eye,  lazily  sweep 
ing  Susan,  showed  a  healthy  curiosity  tempered  by 
the  self-engrossed  indifference  of  the  married  wom 
an  to  whom  the  outsider,  even  in  the  heart  of  the 
wilderness,  is  forever  the  outsider. 

"  Lucy'll  be  real  glad  to  have  a  friend,"  she  said. 
"  She's  lonesome.  Turn  the  bacon,  Lucy,  it  makes 
my  back  ache  to  bend  " ;  and  as  the  sister  bowed 
over  the  frying  pan,  "  move,  children,  you're  in  the 
way." 

This  was  directed  to  two  children  who  lay  on  the 


The  Emigrant  Trail 

grass  by  the  fire,  with  blinking  eyes,  already  half 
asleep.  As  they  did  not  immediately  obey  she  as 
sisted  them  with  a  large  foot,  clad  in  a  man's  shoe. 
The  movement  though  peremptory  was  not  rough. 
It  had  something  of  the  quality  of  the  mother 
tiger's  admonishing  pats  to  her  cubs,  a  certain  gen 
tleness  showing  through  force.  The  foot  propelled 
the  children  into  a  murmurous  drowsy  heap.  One 
of  them,  a  little  girl  with  a  shock  of  white  hair 
and  a  bunch  of  faded  flowers  wilting  in  her  tight 
baby  grasp,  looked  at  her  mother  with  eyes  glazed 
with  sleep,  a  deep  look  as  though  her  soul  was 
gazing  back  from  the  mysteries  of  unconscious 
ness. 

"  Now  lie  there  till  you  get  your  supper,"  said 
the  mother,  having  by  gradual  pressure  pried  them 
out  of  the  way.  "  And  you,"  to  Susan,  "  better 
bring  your  things  over  and  camp  here  and  use  our 
fire.  We've  nearly  finished  with  it." 

In  the  desolation  of  the  morning  Susan  had 
wished  for  a  member  of  her  own  sex,  not  to  confide 
in  but  to  feel  that  there  was  some  one  near,  who,  if 
she  did  know,  could  understand.  Now  here  were 
two.  Their  fresh,  simple  faces  on  which  an  artless 
interest  was  so  naively  displayed,  their  pleasant 
voices,  not  cultured  as  hers  was  but  women's  voices 
for  all  that,  gave  her  spirits  a  lift.  Her  depression 
quite  dropped  away,  the  awful  lonely  feeling,  all 
the  more  whelming  because  nobody  could  under 
stand  it,  departed  from  her.  She  ran  back  to  the 
camp  singing  and  for  the  first  time  that  day  looked 

146 


The  River 

at  David,  whose  presence  she  had  shunned,  with  her 
old,  brilliant  smile. 

An  hour  later  and  the  big  camp  rested,  relaxed  in 
the  fading  twilight  that  lay  a  yellow  thread  of  sep 
aration  between  the  day's  high  colors  and  the  dew- 
less  darkness  of  the  night.  It  was  like  a  scene  from 
the  migrations  of  the  ancient  peoples  when  man 
wandered  with  a  woman,  a  tent,  and  a  herd.  The 
barrier  of  the  wagons,  with  its  girdle  of  fire  sparks, 
incased  a  grassy  oval  green  as  a  lawn.  Here  they 
sat  in  little  groups,  collecting  in  tent  openings  as 
they  were  wont  to  collect  on  summer  nights  at  front 
gates  and  piazza  steps.  The  crooning  of  women 
putting  babies  to  sleep  fell  in  with  the  babblings  of 
the  river.  The  men  smoked  in  silence.  Nature  had 
taught  them  something  of  her  large  reticence  in 
their  day-long  companionship.  Some  few  lounged 
across  the  grass  to  have  speech  of  the  pilot,  a  griz 
zled  mountain  man,  who  had  been  one  of  the  Sub- 
lette's  trappers,  and  had  wise  words  to  say  of  the 
day's  travel  and  the  promise  of  the  weather.  But 
most  of  them  lay  on  the  grass  by  the  tents  where 
they  could  see  the  stars  through  their  pipe  smoke 
and  hear  the  talk  of  their  wives  and  the  breathing 
of  the  children  curled  in  the  blankets. 

A  youth  brought  an  accordion  from  his  stores 
and,  sitting  cross-legged  on  the  ground,  began  to 
play.  He  played  "  Annie  Laurie,"  and  a  woman's 
voice,  her  head  a  black  outline  against  the  west, 
sang  the  words.  Then  there  was  a  clamor  of  ap 
plause,  sounding  thin  and  futile  in  the  evening's 

147 


The  Emigrant  Trail 

suave  quietness,  and  the  player  began  a  Scotch 
reel  in  the  production  of  which  the  accordion  ut 
tered  asthmatic  gasps  as  though  unable  to  keep  up 
with  its  own  proud  pace.  The  tune  was  sufficiently 
good  to  inspire  a  couple  of  dancers.  The  young 
girl  called  Lucy  rose  with  a  partner — her  brother- 
in-law  some  one  told  Susan — and  facing  one  an 
other,  hand  on  hip,  heads  high,  they  began  to  foot 
it  lightly  over  the  blackening  grass. 

Seen  thus  Lucy  was  handsome,  a  tall,  long- 
limbed  sapling  of  a  girl,  with  a  flaming  crest  of  cop 
per-colored  hair  and  movements  as  lithe  and  supple 
as  a  cat's.  She  danced  buoyantly,  without  losing 
breath,  advancing  and  retreating  with  mincing 
steps,  her  face  grave  as  though  the  performance  had 
its  own  dignity  and  was  not  to  be  taken  lightly. 
Her  partner,  a  tanned  and  long-haired  man,  took 
his  part  in  a  livelier  spirit,  laughing  at  her,  bending 
his  body  grotesquely  and  growing  red  with  his 
caperings.  Meanwhile  from  the  tent  door  the  wife 
looked  on  and  Susan  heard  her  say  to  the  doctor 
with  whom  she  had  been  conferring : 

"  And  when  will  it  be  my  turn  to  dance  the  reel 
again?  There  wasn't  a  girl  in  the  town  could 
dance  it  with  me/' 

Her  voice  was  weighted  with  the  wistfulness  of 
the  woman  whose  endless  patience  battles  with  her 
unwillingness  to  be  laid  by. 

Susan  saw  David's  fingers  feeling  in  the  grass  for 
her  hand.  She  gave  it,  felt  the  hard  stress  of  his 
grip,  and  conquered  her  desire  to  draw  the  hand 

148 


The  River 

away.  All  her  coquetry  was  gone.  She  was  cold 
and  subdued.  The  passionate  hunger  of  his  gaze 
made  her  feel  uncomfortable.  She  endured  it  for 
a  space  and  then  said  with  an  edge  of  irritation  on 
her  voice : 

"  What  are  you  staring  at  me  for  ?  Is  there 
something  on  my  face  ?  " 

He  breathed  in  a  roughened  voice : 

"  No,  I  love  you." 

Her  discomfort  increased.  Tumult  and  coldness 
make  uncongenial  neighbors.  The  man,  all  passion, 
and  the  woman,  who  has  no  answering  spark,  grope 
toward  each  other  through  devious  and  unillumined 
ways. 

He  whispered  again : 

"  I  love  you  so.    You  don't  understand." 

She  did  not  and  looked  at  him  inquiringly,  hop 
ing  to  learn  something  from  his  face.  His  eyes, 
meeting  hers,  were  full  of  tears.  It  surprised  her 
so  that  she  stared  speechlessly  at  him,  her  head 
thrown  back,  her  lips  parted. 

He  looked  down,  ashamed  of  his  emotion,  mur 
muring  : 

"  You  don't  understand.  It's  so  sacred.  Some 
day  you  will." 

She  did  not  speak  to  him  again,  but  she  let  him 
hold  her  hand  because  she  thought  she  ought  to  and 
because  she  was  sorry. 


149 


CHAPTER    VI 

THE  next  morning  the  rain  was  pouring.  The 
train  rolled  out  without  picturesque  circumstance, 
the  men  cursing,  the  oxen,  with  great  heads  swing 
ing  under  the  yokes,  plodding  doggedly  through 
lakes  fretted  with  the  downpour.  Breakfast  was  a 
farce;  nobody's  fire  would  burn  and  the  women 
were  wet  through  before  they  had  the  coffee  pots 
out.  One  or  two  provident  parties  had  stoves  fitted 
up  in  their  wagons  with  a  joint  of  pipe  coming  out 
through  holes  in  the  canvas.  From  these,  wafts  of 
smoke  issued  with  jaunty  assurance,  to  be  beaten 
down  by  the  rain,  which  swept  them  fiercely  out  of 
the  landscape. 

There  was  no  perspective,  the  distance  invisible, 
nearer  outlines  blurred.  The  world  was  a  uniform 
tint,  walls  of  gray  marching  in  a  slant  across  a  fore 
ground  embroidered  with  pools.  Water  ran,  or 
dripped,  or  stood  everywhere.  The  river,  its  surface 
roughened  by  the  spit  of  angry  drops,  ran  swollen 
among  its  islands,  plumed  shapes  seen  mistily 
through  the  veil.  The  road  emerged  in  oases  of 
mud  from  long,  inundated  spaces.  Down  the  gul 
lies  in  the  hills,  following  the  beaten  buffalo  tracks, 
streams  percolated  through  the  grass  of  the  bottom, 
feeling  their  way  to  the  river. 

Notwithstanding  the  weather  a  goodly  company 
150 


The  River 

of  mounted  men  rode  at  the  head  of  the  train.  They 
were  wet  to  the  skin  and  quite  indifferent  to  it. 
They  had  already  come  to  regard  the  vagaries  of 
the  weather  as  matters  of  no  import.  Mosquitoes 
and  Indians  were  all  they  feared.  On  such  nights 
many  of  them  slept  in  the  open  under  a  tarpaulin, 
and  when  the  water  grew  deep  about  them  scooped 
out  a  drainage  canal  with  a  hand  that  sleep  made 
heavy. 

When  the  disorder  of  the  camping  ground  was 
still  in  sight,  Susan,  with  the  desire  of  social  inter 
course  strong  upon  her,  climbed  into  the  wagon  of 
her  new  friends.  They  were  practical,  thrifty  peo 
ple,  and  were  as  comfortable  as  they  could  be  under 
a  roof  of  soaked  canvas  in  a  heavily  weighted 
prairie  schooner  that  every  now  and  then  bumped 
to  the  bottom  of  a  chuck  hole.  The  married  sister 
sat  on  a  pile  of  sacks  disposed  in  a  form  that  made 
a  comfortable  seat.  A  blanket  was  spread  behind 
her,  and  thus  enthroned  she  knitted  at  a  stocking  of 
gray  yarn.  Seen  in  the  daylight  she  was  young, 
fresh-skinned,  and  not  uncomely.  Placidity  seemed 
to  be  the  dominating  note  of  her  personality.  It 
found  physical  expression  in  the  bland  parting  of 
her  hair,  drawn  back  from  her  smooth  brow,  her 
large  plump  hands  with  their  deliberate  movements 
and  dimples  where  more  turbulent  souls  had 
knuckles,  and  her  quiet  eyes,  which  turned  upon 
anyone  who  addressed  her  a  long  ruminating  look 
before  she  answered.  She  had  an  air  of  almost 
oracular  profundity  but  she  was  merely  in  the  qui- 


The  Emigrant  Trail 

escent  state  of  the  woman  whose  faculties  and 
strength  are  concentrated  upon  the  coming  child. 
Her  sister  called  her  Bella  and  the  people  in  the 
train  addressed  her  as  Mrs.  McMurdo. 

Lucy  was  beside  her  also  knitting  a  stocking,  and 
the  husband,  Glen  McMurdo,  sat  in  the  front  driv 
ing,  his  legs  in  the  rain,  his  upper  half  leaning  back 
under  the  shelter  of  the  roof.  He  looked  sleepy, 
gave  a  grunt  of  greeting  to  Susan,  and  then  lapsed 
against  the  saddle  propped  behind  him,  his  hat 
pulled  low  on  his  forehead  hiding  his  eyes.  In  this 
position,  without  moving  or  evincing  any  sign  of 
life,  he  now  and  then  appeared  to  be  roused  to  the 
obligations  of  his  position  and  shouted  a  drowsy 
"  Gee  Haw,"  at  the  oxen. 

He  did  not  interfere  with  the  women  and  they 
broke  into  the  talk  of  their  sex,  how  they  cooked, 
which  of  their  clothes  had  worn  best,  what  was  the 
right  way  of  jerking  buffalo  meat.  And  then  on  to 
personal  matters :  where  they  came  from,  what  they 
were  at  home,  whither  they  were  bound.  The  two 
sisters  were  Scotch  girls,  had  come  from  Scotland 
twenty  years  ago  when  Lucy  was  a  baby.  Their 
home  was  Cooperstown  where  Glen  was  a  carpen 
ter.  He  had  heard  wonderful  stories  of  California, 
how  there  were  no  carpenters  there  and  people  were 
flocking  in,  so  he'd  decided  to  emigrate. 

"  And  once  he'd  got  his  mind  set  on  it,  he  had  to 
start,"  said  his  wife.  "  Couldn't  wait  for  anything 
but  must  be  off  then  and  there.  That's  the  way 


152 


The  River 

"  It's  a  hard  trip  for  you,"  said  Susan,  wonder 
ing  at  Mrs.  McMurdo's  serenity. 

"  Well,  I  suppose  it  is,"  said  Bella,  as  if  she  did 
not  really  think  it  was,  but  was  too  lazy  to  disagree. 
"  I  hope  I'll  last  till  we  get  to  Fort  Bridger." 

"What's  at  Fort  Bridger?" 

"  It's  a  big  place  with  lots  of  trains  coming  and 
going  and  there'll  probably  be  a  doctor  among 
them.  And  they  say  it's  a  good  place  for  the  ani 
mals — plenty  of  grass — so  it'll  be  all  right  if  I'm 
laid  up  for  long.  But  I  have  my  children  very 
easily." 

It  seemed  to  the  doctor's  daughter  a  desperate 
outlook  and  she  eyed,  with  a  combination  of  pity 
and  awe,  the  untroubled  Bella  reclining  on  the 
throne  of  sacks.  The  wagon  gave  a  creaking  lurch 
and  Bella  nearly  lost  count  of  her  stitches  which 
made  her  frown  as  she  was  turning  the  heel.  The 
lurch  woke  her  husband  who  pushed  back  his  hat, 
shouted  "  Gee  Haw  '"  at  the  oxen,  and  then  said  to 
his  wife: 

"  You  got  to  cut  my  hair,  Bella.  These  long 
tags  hanging  down  round  my  ears  worry  me." 

"  Yes,  dear,  as  soon  as  the  weather's  fine.  I'll 
borrow  a  bowl  from  Mrs.  Peeble's  mother  so  that 
it'll  be  cut  evenly  all  the  way  round." 

Here  there  was  an  interruption,  a  breathless, 
baby  voice  at  the  wheel,  and  Glen  leaned  down 
and  dragged  up  his  son  Bob,  wet,  wriggling,  and 
muddy.  The  little  fellow,  four  years  old,  had  on 
a  homespun  shirt  and  drawers,  both  dripping.  His 

153 


The  Emigrant  Trail 

hair  was  a  wet  mop,  hanging  in  rat  tails  to  his  eyes. 
Under  its  thatch  his  face,  pink  and  smiling,  was  as 
fresh  as  a  dew-washed  rose.  Tightly  gripped  in  a 
dirty  paw  were  two  wild  flowers,  and  it  was  to  give 
these  to  his  mother  that  he  had  come. 

He  staggered  toward  her,  the  wagon  gave  a  jolt, 
and  he  fell,  clasping  her  knees  and  rilling  the  air 
with  the  sweetness  of  his  laughter.  Then  holding 
to  her  arm  and  shoulder,  he  drew  himself  higher 
and  pressed  the  flowers  close  against  her  nose. 

"Is  it  a  bu'full  smell?"  he  inquired,  watching 
her  face  with  eyes  of  bright  inquiry. 

"  Beautiful,"  she  said,  trying  to  see  the  knitting. 

"  Aren't  you  glad  I  brought  them  ?  "  still  anx 
iously  inquiring. 

"  Very  " — she  pushed  them  away.  "  You're 
soaked.  Take  off  your  things." 

And  little  Bob,  still  holding  his  flowers,  was 
stripped  to  his  skin. 

"  Now  lie  down,"  said  his  mother.  "-I'm  turn 
ing  the  heel." 

He  obeyed,  but  turbulently,  and  with  much  pre 
tense,  making  believe  to  fall  and  rolling  on  the 
sacks,  a  naked  cherub  writhing  with  laughter.  Fi 
nally,  his  mother  had  to  stop  her  heel-turning  to 
seize  him  by  one  leg,  drag  him  toward  her,  roll  him 
up  in  the  end  of  the  blanket  and  with  a  silencing 
slap  say,  "  There,  lie  still."  This  quieted  him.  He 
lay  subdued  save  for  a  waving  hand  in  which  the 
flowers  were  still  imbedded  and  with  which  he 
made  passes  at  the  two  girls,  murmuring  with  the 

154 


The  River 

thick  utterance  of  rising  sleep  "  Bu'full  flowers." 
And  in  a  moment  he  slept,  curled  against  his  moth 
er,  his  face  angelic  beneath  the  wet  hair. 

When  Susan  came  to  the  giving  of  her  personal 
data — the  few  facts  necessary  to  locate  and  intro 
duce  her — her  engagement  was  the  item  of  most 
interest.  A  love  story  even  on  the  plains,  with  the 
rain  dribbling  in  through  the  cracks  of  the  canvas, 
possessed  the  old,  deathless  charm.  The  doctor 
and  his  philanthropies,  on  which  she  would  have 
liked  to  dilate,  were  given  the  perfunctory  attention 
that  politeness  demanded.  By  himself  the  good 
man  is  dull,  he  has  to  have  a  woman  on  his  arm  to 
carry  weight.  David,  the  lover,  and  Susan,  the  ob 
ject  of  his  love,  were  the  hero  and  heroine  of  the 
story.  Even  the  married  woman  forgot  the  turn 
ing  of  the  heel  and  fastened  her  mild  gaze  on  the 
young  girl. 

"  And  such  a  handsome  fellow,"  she  said.  "  I 
said  to  Lucy — she'll  tell  you  if  I  didn't — that  there 
wasn't  a  man  to  compare  with  him  in  our  train. 
And  so  gallant  and  polite.  Last  night,  when  I  was 
heating  the  water  to  wash  the  children,  he  carried 
the  pails  for  me.  None  of  the  men  with  us  do  that. 
They'd  never  think  of  offering  to  carry  our  buckets." 
Her  husband  who  had  appeared  to  be  asleep  said : 
"Why  should  they?"  and  then  shouted  "Gee 
Haw  "  and  made  a  futile  kick  toward  the  near 
est  ox. 

Nobody  paid  any  attention  to  him  and  Lucy  said : 
'  Yes,  he's  very  fine  looking.     And  you'd  never 

155 


The  Emigrant  Trail 

met  till  you  started  on  the  trail?  Isn't  that  ro 
mantic?  " 

Susan  was  gratified.  To  hear  David  thus  com 
mended  by  other  women  increased  his  value.  If  it 
did  not  make  her  love  him  more,  it  made  her  feel 
the  pride  of  ownership  in  a  desirable  possession. 
There  was  complacence  in  her  voice  as  she  cited  his 
other  gifts. 

"  He's  very  learned.  He's  read  all  kinds  of  books. 
My  father  says  it's  wonderful  how  much  he's  read. 
And  he  can  recite  poetry,  verses  and  verses,  Byron 
and  Milton  and  Shakespeare.  He  often  recites  to 
me  when  we're  riding  together." 

This  acquirement  of  the  lover's  did  not  elicit  any 
enthusiasm  from  Bella. 

"  Well,  did  you  ever !  "  she  murmured  absently, 
counting  stitches  under  her  breath  and  then  pulling 
a  needle  out  of  the  heel,  "  Reciting  poetry  on  horse 
back!" 

But  it  impressed  Lucy,  who,  still  in  the  virgin 
state  with  fancy  free  to  range,  was  evidently  in 
clined  to  romance : 

"  When  you  have  a  little  log  house  in  California 
and  live  in  it  with  him  he'll  recite  poetry  to  you  in 
the  evening  after  the  work's  done.  Won't  that  be 
lovely?" 

Susan  made  no  response.  Instead  she  swallowed 
silently,  looking  out  on  the  rain.  The  picture  of 
herself  and  David,  alone  in  a  log  cabin  somewhere 
on  the  other  side  of  the  world,  caused  a  sudden  re 
turn  of  yesterday's  dejection.  It  rushed  back  upon 

156 


The  River 

her  in  a  flood  under  which  her  heart  declined  into 
bottomless  depths.  She  felt  as  if  actually  sinking 
into  some  dark  abyss  of  loneliness  and  that  she 
must  clutch  at  her  father  and  Daddy  John  to  stay 
her  fall. 

"  We  won't  be  alone,"  with  a  note  of  protest 
making  her  voice  plaintive.  "  My  father  and 
Daddy  John  will  be  there.  I  couldn't  be  separated 
from  them.  I'd  never  get  over  missing  them. 
They've  been  with  me  always." 

Bella  did  not  notice  the  tone,  or  maybe  saw  be 
yond  it. 

"  You  won't  miss  them  when  you're  married," 
she  said  with  her  benign  content.  "  Your  husband 
will  be  enough." 

Lucy,  with  romance  instead  of  a  husband,  agreed 
to  this,  and  arranged  the  programme  for  the  future 
as  she  would  have  had  it : 

"  They'll  probably  live  near  you  in  tents.  And 
you'll  see  them  often;  ride  over  every  few  days. 
But  you'll  want  your  own  log  house  just  for  your 
selves." 

This  time  Susan  did  not  answer,  for  she  was 
afraid  to  trust  her  voice.  She  pretended  a  sudden 
interest  in  the  prospect  while  the  unbearable  picture 
rose  before  her  mind — she  and  David  alone,  while 
her  father  and  Daddy  John  were  somewhere  else  in 
tents,  somewhere  away  from  her,  out  of  reach  of 
her  hands  and  her  kisses,  not  there  to  laugh  with 
her  and  tease  her  and  tell  her  she  was  a  tyrant, 
only  David  loving  her  in  an  unintelligible,  discom- 

157 


The  Emigrant  Trail 

forting  way  and  wanting  to  read  poetry  and  admire 
sunsets.  The  misery  of  it  gripped  down  into  her 
soul.  It  was  as  the  thought  of  being  marooned  on 
a  lone  sand  bar  tb>  a  free  buccaneer.  They  never 
could  leave  her  so;  they  never  could  have  the  heart 
to  do  it.  And  anger  against  David,  the  cause  of  it, 
swelled  in  her.  It  was  he  who  had  done  it  all,  try 
ing  to  steal  her  away  from  the  dear,  familiar  ways 
and  the  people  with  whom  she  had  been  so  happy. 

Lucy  looked  at  her  with  curious  eyes,  in  which 
there  was  admiration  and  a  touch  of  envy. 

"  You  must  be  awfully  happy?  "  she  said. 

"  Awfully,"  answered  Susan,  swallowing  and 
looking  at  the  rain. 

When  she  went  back  to  her  own  wagon  she 
found  a  consultation  in  progress.  Daddy  John, 
streaming  from  every  fold,  had  just  returned  from 
the  head  of  the  caravan,  where  he  had  been  riding 
with  the  pilot.  From  him  he  had  heard  that  the 
New  York  Company  on  good  roads,  in  fair 
weather,  made  twenty  miles  a  day,  and  that  in  the 
mountains,  where  the  fodder  was  scarce  and  the 
trail  hard,  would  fall  to  a  slower  pace.  The  doc 
tor's  party,  the  cow  long  since  sacrificed  to  the  exi 
gencies  of  speed,  had  been  making  from  twenty-five 
to  thirty.  Even  with  a  drop  from  this  in  the  barer 
regions  ahead  of  them  they  could  look  forward  to 
reaching  California  a  month  or  six  weeks  before 
the  New  York  Company. 

There  was  nothing  to  be  gained  by  staying  with 
them,  and,  so  far,  the  small  two-wagon  caravan  had 

158 


The  River 

moved  with  a  speed  and  absence  of  accident,  which 
gave  its  members  confidence  in  their  luck  and  gen 
eralship.  It  was  agreed  that  they  should  leave  the 
big  train  the  next  morning  and  move  on  as  rapidly 
as  they  could,  stopping  at  Fort  Laramie  to  repair 
the  wagons  which  the  heat  had  warped,  shoe  the 
horses,  and  lay  in  the  supplies  they  needed. 

Susan  heard  it  with  regret.  The  comfort  of 
dropping  back  into  the  feminine  atmosphere,  where 
obvious  things  did  not  need  explanation,  and  all 
sorts  of  important  communications  were  made  by 
mental  telepathy,  was  hard  to  relinquish.  She 
would  once  again  have  to  adjust  herself  to  the  dull 
male  perceptions  which  saw  and  heard  nothing  that 
was  not  visible  and  audible.  She  would  have  to 
shut  herself  in  with  her  own  problems,  getting  no 
support  or  sympathy  unless  she  asked  for  it,  and 
then,  before  its  sources  could  be  tapped,  she  would 
have  to  explain  why  she  wanted  it  and  demonstrate 
that  she  was  a  deserving  object. 

And  it  was  hard  to  break  the  budding  friendship 
with  Lucy  and  Bella,  for  friendships  were  not  long 
making  on  the  Emigrant  Trail.  One  day's  compan 
ionship  in  the  creaking  prairie  schooner  had  made 
the  three  women  more  intimate  than  a  year  of  city 
visiting  would  have  done.  They  made  promises  of 
meeting  again  in  California.  Neither  party  knew 
its  exact  point  of  destination — somewhere  on  that 
strip  of  prismatic  color,  not  too  crowrded  and  not 
too  wild  but  that  wanderers  of  the  same  blood  and 
birth  might  always  find  each  other. 

159 


The  Emigrant  Trail 

In  the  evening  the  two  girls  sat  in  Susan's  tent 
enjoying  a  last  exchange  of  low-toned  talk.  The 
rain  had  stopped.  The  thick,  bluish  wool  of  clouds 
that  stretched  from  horizon  to  horizon  was  here 
and  there  rent  apart,  showing  strips  of  lemon-col 
ored  sky.  The  ground  was  soaked,  the  footprints 
round  the  wagons  filled  with  water,  the  ruts  brim 
ming  with  it.  There  was  a  glow  of  low  fires  round 
the  camp,  for  the  mosquitoes  were  bad  and  the 
brown  smudge  of  smoldering  buffalo  chips  kept 
them  away. 

Susan  gave  the  guest  the  seat  of  honor — her  sad 
dle  spread  with  a  blanket — and  herself  sat  on  a  pile 
of  skins.  The  tent  had  been  pitched  on  a  rise  of 
ground  and  already  the  water  was  draining  off. 
Through  the  looped  entrance  they  could  see  the 
regular  lights  of  the  fires,  spotted  on  the  twilight 
like  the  lamps  of  huge,  sedentary  glow  worms,  and 
the  figures  of  men  recumbent  near  where  the  slow 
smoke  spirals  wound  languidly  up.  Above  the 
sweet,  moist  odor  of  the  rain,  the  tang  of  the  burn 
ing  dung  rose,  pungent  and  biting. 

Here  as  the  evening  deepened  they  comfortably 
gossiped,  their  voices  dropping  lower  as  the  camp 
sunk  to  rest.  They  exchanged  vows  of  the  friend 
ship  that  was  to  be  renewed  in  California,  and  then, 
drawing  closer  together,  watching  the  fires  die 
down  to  sulky  red  sparks  and  the  sentinel's  figure 
coming  and  going  on  its  lonely  beat,  came  to  an  ex 
change  of  opinions  on  love  and  marriage. 

Susan  was  supposed  to  know  most,  her  proprie- 
160 


The  River 

torship  of  David  giving  her  words  the  value  of  ex 
perience,  but  Lucy  had  most  to  say.  Her  tongue 
loosened  by  the  hour  and  a  pair  of  listening  ears, 
she  revealed  herself  as  much  preoccupied  with  all 
matters  of  sentiment,  and  it  was  only  natural  that 
a  love  story  of  her  own  should  be  confessed.  It 
was  back  in  Cooperstown,  and  he  had  been  an  ap 
prentice  of  Glen's.  She  hadn't  cared  for  him  at  all, 
judging  by  excerpts  from  the  scenes  of  his  court 
ship  he  had  been  treated  with  unmitigated  harsh 
ness.  But  her  words  and  tones — still  entirely  scorn 
ful  with  half  a  continent  between  her  and  the 
adorer — gave  evidence  of  a  regret,  of  self-accusing, 
uneasy  doubt,  as  of  one  who  looks  back  on  lost 
opportunities.  The  listener's  ear  was  caught  by  it, 
indicating  a  state  of  mind  so  different  from  her 
own. 

"Then  you  did  like  him?" 

"  I  didn't  like  him  at  all.     I  couldn't  bear  him.'? 

"  But  you  seem  sorry  you  didn't  marry  him." 

"  Well—  No,  I'm  not  sorry.  But  " — it  was  the 
hour  for  truth,  the  still  indifference  of  the  night 
made  a  lie  seem  too  trivial  for  the  effort  of  telling 
— "  I  don't  know  out  here  in  the  wilds  whether  I'll 
ever  get  anyone  else." 


161 


CHAPTER   VII 

BY  noon  the  next  day  the  doctor's  train  had  left 
the  New  York  Company  far  behind.  Looking  back 
they  could  see  it  in  gradual  stages  of  diminishment 
— a  white  serpent  with  a  bristling  head  of  scattered 
horsemen,  then  a  white  worm,  its  head  a  collection 
of  dark  particles,  then  a  white  thread  with  a  head 
too  insignificant  to  be  deciphered.  Finally  it  was 
gone,  absorbed  into  the  detailless  distance  where 
the  river  coiled  through  the  green. 

Twenty-four  hours  later  they  reached  the  Forks 
of  the  Platte.  Here  the  trail  crossed  the  South 
Fork,  slanted  over  the  plateau  that  lay  between  the 
two  branches,  and  gained  the  North  Fork.  Up  this 
it  passed,  looping  round  the  creviced  backs  of 
mighty  bluffs,  and  bearing  northwestward  to  Fort 
Laramie.  The  easy  faring  of  the  grassed  bottom 
was  over.  The  turn  to  the  North  Fork  was  the 
turn  to  the  mountains.  The  slow  stream  with  its 
fleet  of  islands  would  lose  its  dreamy  deliberateness 
and  become  a  narrowed  rushing  current,  sweeping 
round  the  bases  of  sandstone  walls  as  the  pioneers 
followed  it  up  and  on  toward  the  whitened  crests 
of  the  Wind  River  Mountains,  where  the  snows 
never  melted  and  the  lakes  lay  in  the  hollows  green 
as  jade. 

It  was  afternoon  when  they  reached  the  ford. 
162 


The  River 

The  hills  had  sunk  away  to  low  up-sweepings  of 
gray  soil,  no  longer  hiding  the  plain  which  lay  yel 
low  against  a  cobalt  sky.  As  the  wagons  rolled 
up  on  creaking  wheels  the  distance  began  to  darken 
with  the  buffalo.  The  prospect  was  like  a  bright- 
colored  map  over  which  a  black  liquid  has  been 
spilled,  here  in  drops,  there  in  creeping  streams. 
Long  files  flowed  from  the  rifts  between  the 
dwarfed  bluffs,  unbroken  herds  swept  in  a  wave 
over  the  low  barrier,  advanced  to  the  river,  crusted 
its  surface,  passed  across,  and  surged  up  the  oppo 
site  bank.  Finally  all  sides  showed  the  moving 
mass,  blackening  the  plateau,  lining  the  water's 
edge  in  an  endless  undulation  of  backs  and  heads, 
foaming  down  the  faces  of  the  sand  slopes.  Where 
the  train  moved  they  divided  giving  it  right  of  way, 
streaming  by,  bulls,  cows,  and  calves  intent  on  their 
own  business,  the  earth  tremulous  under  their  tread. 
Through  breaks  in  their  ranks  the  blue  and  purple 
of  the  hills  shone  startlingly  vivid  and  beyond  the 
prairie  lay  like  a  fawn-colored  sea  across  which 
dark  shadows  trailed. 

The  ford  was  nearly  a  mile  wide,  a  shallow  cur 
rent,  in  some  places  only  a  glaze,  but  with  shifting 
sands  stirring  beneath  it.  Through  the  thin,  glass- 
like  spread  of  water  the  backs  of  sand  bars 
emerged,  smooth  as  the  bodies  of  recumbent  mon 
sters.  On  the  far  side  the  plateau  stretched,  lilac 
with  the  lupine  flowers,  the  broken  rear  line  of  the 
herd  receding  across  it. 

The  doctor,  feeling  the  way,  was  to  ride  in  the 

163 


The  Emigrant  Trail 

lead,  his  wagon  following  with  Susan  and  Daddy 
John  on  the  driver's  seat.  It  seemed  an  easy  mat 
ter,  the  water  chuckling  round  the  wheels,  the 
mules  not  wet  above  the  knees.  Half  way  across, 
grown  unduly  confident,  the  doctor  turned  in  his 
saddle  to  address  his  daughter  when  his  horse 
walked  into  a  quicksand  and  unseated  him.  It  took 
them  half  an  hour  to  drag  it  out,  Susan  imploring 
that  her  father  come  back  to  the  wagon  and  change 
his  clothes.  He  only  laughed  at  her  which  made 
her  angry.  With  frowning  brows  she  saw  him 
mount  again,  and  a  dripping,  white-haired  figure, 
set  out  debonairly  for  the  opposite  bank. 

The  sun  was  low,  the  night  chill  coming  on  when 
they  reached  it.  Their  wet  clothes  were  cold  upon 
them  and  the  camp  pitching  was  hurried.  Susan 
bending  over  her  fire,  blowing  at  it  with  expanded 
cheeks  and,  between  her  puffs,  scolding  at  her 
father,  first,  for  having  got  wet,  then  for  having 
stayed  wet,  and  now  for  being  still  wet,  was  to 
David  just  as  charming  as  any  of  the  other  and 
milder  apotheoses  of  the  Susan  he  had  come  to 
know  so  well.  It  merely  added  a  new  tang,  a 
fresh  spice  of  variety,  to  a  personality  a  less  rav 
ished  observer  might  have  thought  unattractively 
masterful  for  a  woman. 

Her  fire  kindled,  the  camp  in  shape,  she  lay  down 
by  the  little  blaze  with  her  head  under  a  lupine  plant. 
Her  wrath  had  simmered  to  appeasement  by  the 
retirement  of  the  doctor  into  his  wagon,  and  David, 
glimpsing  at  her,  saw  that  her  eyes,  a  thread  of 

164 


The  River 

observation  between  black-fringed  lids,  dwelt  mus 
ingly  on  the  sky.  She  looked  as  if  she  might  be 
dreaming  a  maiden's  dream  of  love.  He  hazarded 
a  tentative  remark.  Her  eyes  moved,  touched  him 
indifferently,  and  passed  back  to  the  sky,  and  an 
unformed  murmur,  interrogation,  acquiescence, 
casual  response,  anything  he  pleased  to  think  it, 
escaped  her  lips.  He  watched  her  as  he  could  when 
she  was  not  looking  at  him.  A  loosened  strand  of 
her  hair  lay  among  the  lupine  roots,  one  of  her 
hands  rested,  brown  and  upcurled,  on  a  tiny  weed 
its  weight  had  broken.  She  turned  her  head  with 
a  nestling  movement,  drew  a  deep,  soft  breath  and 
her  eyelids  drooped. 

"  David,"  she  said  in  a  drowsy  voice,  "  I'm  go 
ing  to  sleep.  Wake  me  at  supper  time." 

He  became  rigidly  quiet.  When  she  had  sunk 
deep  into  sleep,  only  her  breast  moving  with  the 
ebb  and  flow  of  her  quiet  breath,  he  crept  nearer 
and  drew  a  blanket  over  her,  careful  not  to  touch 
her.  He  looked  at  the  unconscious  face  for  a  mo 
ment,  then  softly  dropped  the  blanket  and  stole  back 
to  his  place  ready  to  turn  at  the  first  foot  fall  and 
lift  a  silencing  hand. 

It  was  one  of  the  beautiful  moments  that  had 
come  to  him  in  his  wooing.  He  sat  in  still  reverie, 
feeling  the  dear  responsibilities  of  his  ownership. 
That  she  might  sleep,  sweet  and  soft,  he  would 
work  as  no  man  ever  worked  before.  To  guard, 
to  comfort,  to  protect  her — that  would  be  his  life. 
He  turned  and  looked  at  her,  his  sensitive  face 

165 


The  Emigrant  Trail 

softening  like  a  woman's  watching  the  sleep  of  her 
child.  Susan,  all  unconscious,  with  her  rich  young 
body  showing  in  faint  curves  under  the  defining 
blanket,  and  her  hair  lying  loose  among  the  roots 
of  the  lupine  bush,  was  so  devoid  of  that  imperi 
ous  quality  that  marked  her  when  awake,  was  so 
completely  a  tender  feminine  thing,  with  peaceful 
eyelids  and  innocent  lips,  that  it  seemed  a  desecra 
tion  to  look  upon  her  in  such  a  moment  of  aban 
donment.  Love  might  transform  her  into  this — in 
her  waking  hours  when  her  body  and  heart  had 
yielded  themselves  to  their  master. 

David  turned  away.  The  sacred  thought  that 
some  day  he  would  be  the  owner  of  this  complex 
creation  of  flesh  and  spirit,  so  rich,  so  fine,  with 
depths  unknown  to  his  groping  intelligence,  made 
a  rush  of  supplication,  a  prayer  to  be  worthy,  rise 
in  his  heart.  He  looked  at  the  sunset  through  half- 
shut  eyes,  sending  his  desire  up  to  that  unknown 
God,  who,  in  these  wild  solitudes,  seemed  leaning 
down  to  listen : 

"Behold,  he  that  keepeth  Israel  shall  neither 
slumber  nor  sleep." 

The  sun,  falling  to  the  horizon  like  a  spinning 
copper  disk,  was  as  a  sign  of  promise  and  help. 
The  beauty  of  the  hour  stretched  into  the  future. 
His  glance,  shifting  to  the  distance,  saw  the  scat 
tered  dots  of  the  disappearing  buffalo,  the  shadows 
sloping  across  the  sand  hills,  and  the  long  ex 
panse  of  lupines  blotting  into  a  thick  foam  of  lilac 
blue. 

166 


The  River 

Susan  stirred,  and  he  woke  from  his  musings 
with  a  start.  She  sat  up,  the  blanket  falling  from 
her  shoulders,  and  looking  at  him  with  sleep-filled 
eyes,  smiled  the  sweet,  meaningless  smile  of  a  half- 
awakened  child.  Her  consciousness  had  not  yet 
fully  returned,  and  her  glance,  curiously  clear  and 
liquid,  rested  on  his  without  intelligence.  The 
woman  in  her  was  never  more  apparent,  her  seduc 
tion  never  more  potent.  Her  will  dormant,  her 
bounding  energies  at  low  ebb,  she  looked  a  thing  to 
nestle,  soft  and  yielding,  against  a  man's  heart. 

"Have  I  slept  long?"  she  said  stretching,  and 
then,  "  Isn't  it  cold." 

"  Come  near  the  fire,"  he  answered.  "  I've  built 
it  up  while  you  were  asleep." 

She  came,  trailing  the  blanket  in  a  languid  hand, 
and  sat  beside  him.  He  drew  it  up  about  her  shoul 
ders  and  looked  into  her  face.  Meeting  his  eyes 
she  broke  into  low  laughter,  and  leaning  nearer  to 
him  murmured  in  words  only  half  articulated : 

"  Oh,  David,  I'm  so  sleepy." 

He  took  her  hand,  and  it  stayed  unresisting 
against  his  palm.  She  laughed  again,  and  then 
yawned,  lifting  her  shoulders  with  a  supple  move 
ment  that  shook  off  the  blanket. 

"  It  takes  such  a  long  time  to  wake  up,"  she  mur 
mured  apologetically. 

David  made  no  answer,  and  for  a  space  they  sat 
silent  looking  at  the  sunset.  As  the  mists  of  sleep 
dispersed  she  became  aware  of  his  hand  pressure, 
and  the  contentment  that  marked  her  awakening 


The  Emigrant  Trail 

was  marred.  But  she  felt  in  a  kindly  mood  and 
did  not  withdraw  her  hand.  Instead,  she  wanted  to 
please  him,  to  be  as  she  thought  he  would  like  her 
to  be,  so  she  made  a  gallant  effort  and  said : 

"  What  a  wonderful  sunset — all  yellow  to  the 
middle  of  the  sky." 

He  nodded,  looking  at  the  flaming  west.  She 
went  on : 

"  And  there  are  little  bits  of  gold  cloud  floating 
over  it,  like  the  melted  lead  that  you  pour  through 
a  key  on  all  Hallowe'en." 

He  again  made  no  answer,  and  leaning  nearer 
to  spy  into  his  face,  she  asked  naively : 

"Don't  you  think  it  beautiful?" 

He  turned  upon  her  sharply,  and  she  drew  back 
discomposed  by  his  look. 

"  Let  me  kiss  you,"  he  said,  his  voice  a  little 
husky. 

He  was  her  betrothed  and  had  never  kissed  her 
but  once  in  the  moonlight.  It  was  his  right,  and 
after  all,  conquering  the  inevitable  repugnance,  it 
did  not  take  long.  Caught  thus  in  a  yielding 
mood  she  resolved  to  submit.  She  had  a  comfort 
ing  sense  that  it  was  a  rite  to  which  in  time  one 
became  accustomed.  With  a  determination  to  per 
form  her  part  graciously  she  lowered  her  eyelids 
and  presented  a  dusky  cheek.  As  his  shoulder 
touched  hers  she  felt  that  he  trembled  and  was  in 
stantly  seized  with  the  antipathy  that  his  emotion 
woke  in  her.  But  it  was  too  late  to  withdraw.  His 
arms  closed  round  her  and  he  crushed  her  against 

168 


The  River 

his  chest.  When  she  felt  their  strength  and  the 
beating  of  his  heart  against  the  unstirred  calm  of 
her  own,  her  good  resolutions  were  swept  away  in 
a  surge  of  abhorrence.  She  struggled  for  freedom, 
repelling  him  with  violent,  pushing  hands,  and  ex 
claiming  breathlessly : 

"  Don't,  David!   Stop!   I  won't  have  it!   Don't!  " 

He  instantly  released  her,  and  she  shrunk  away, 
brushing  off  the  bosom  of  her  blouse  as  if  he  had 
left  dust  there.  Her  face  was  flushed  and  frowning. 

"  Don't.  You  mustn't,"  she  repeated,  with 
heated  reproof.  "  I  don't  want  you  to." 

David  smiled  a  sheepish  smile,  looking  foolish, 
and  not  knowing  what  to  say.  At  the  sight  of  his 
crestfallen  expression  she  averted  her  eyes,  sorry 
that  she  had  hurt  him  but  not  sufficiently  sorry  to 
risk  a  repetition  of  the  unpleasant  experience.  He, 
too,  turned  his  glance  from  her,  biting  his  lip  to 
hide  the  insincerity  of  his  smile,  irritated  at  her 
unmanageableness,  and  in  his  heart  valuing  her 
more  highly  that  she  was  so  hard  to  win.  Both 
were  exceedingly  conscious,  and  with  deepened 
color  sat  gazing  in  opposite  directions  like  children 
who  have  had  a  quarrel. 

A  step  behind  them  broke  upon  their  embarrass 
ment,  saving  them  from  the  necessity  of  speech. 
Daddy  John's  voice  came  with  it : 

"  Missy,  do  you  know  if  the  keg  of  whisky  was 
moved?  It  ain't  where  I  put  it." 

She  turned  with  a  lightning  quickness. 

"Whisky!     Who  wants  whisky?" 
169 


The  Emigrant  Trail 

Daddy  John  looked  uncomfortable. 

"  Well,  the  doctor's  took  sort  of  cold,  got  a 
shiver  on  him  like  the  ague,  and  he  thought  a  nip 
o'  whisky'd  warm  him  up." 

She  jumped  to  her  feet. 

"  There !  "  flinging  out  the  word  with  the  rage 
of  a  disregarded  prophet,  "  a  chill !  I  knew  it !  " 

In  a  moment  all  the  self-engrossment  of  her 
bashfulness  was  gone.  Her  mind  had  turned  on 
another  subject  with  such  speed  and  complete 
ness  that  David's  kiss  and  her  anger  might  have 
taken  place  in  another  world  in  a  previous  age. 
Her  faculties  leaped  to  the  sudden  call  like  a  liber 
ated  spring,  and  her  orders  burst  on  Daddy  John: 

"  In  the  back  of  the  wagon,  under  the  corn  meal. 
It  was  moved  when  we  crossed  the  Big  Blue.  Take 
out  the  extra  blankets  and  the  medicine  chest. 
That's  in  the  front  corner,  near  my  clothes,  under 
the  seat.  A  chill — out  here  in  the  wilderness !  " 

David  turned  to  soothe  her: 

"  Don't  be  worried.  A  chill's  natural  enough 
after  such  a  wetting." 

She  shot  a  quick,  hard  glance  at  him,  and  he  felt 
ignominiously  repulsed.  In  its  preoccupation  her 
face  had  no  recognition  of  him,  not  only  as  a  lover 
but  as  a  human  being.  Her  eyes,  under  low-drawn 
brows,  stared  for  a  second  into  his  with  the  unsee 
ing  intentness  of  inward  thought.  Her  struggles 
to  avoid  his  kiss  were  not  half  so  chilling.  Further 
solacing  words  died  on  his  lips. 

"  It's  the  worst  possible  thing  that  could  happen 
170 


The  River 

to  him.  Everybody  knows  that  " — then  she  looked 
after  Daddy  John.  "  Get  the  whisky  at  once/'  she 
called.  "  I'll  find  the  medicines." 

"  Can't  I  help  ?  "  the  young  man  implored. 

Without  answering  she  started  for  the  wagon, 
and  midway  between  it  and  the  fire  paused  to  cry 
back  over  her  shoulder : 

"  Heat  water,  or  if  you  can  find  stones  heat  them. 
We  must  get  him  warm." 

And  she  ran  on. 

David  looked  about  for  the  stones.  The  "  we  " 
consoled  him  a  little,  but  he  felt  as  if  he  were  ex 
cluded  into  outer  darkness,  and  at  a  moment  when 
she  should  have  turned  to  him  for  the  aid  he 
yearned  to  give.  He  could  not  get  over  the  sudden 
ness  of  it,  and  watched  them  forlornly,  gazing  envi 
ously  at  their  conferences  over  the  medicine  chest, 
once  straightening  himself  from  his  search  for 
stones  to  call  longingly: 

"  Can't  I  do  something  for  you  over  there  ?  " 

"  Have  you  the  stones  ?  "  she  answered  without 
raising  her  head,  and  he  went  back  to  his  task. 

In  distress  she  had  turned  from  the  outside 
world,  broken  every  lien  of  interest  with  it,  and 
gone  back  to  her  own.  The  little  circle  in  which 
her  life  had  always  moved  snapped  tight  upon  her, 
leaving  the  lover  outside,  as  completely  shut  out 
from  her  and  her  concerns  as  if  he  had  been  a 
stranger  camped  by  her  fire. 


171 


CHAPTER    VIII 

THE  doctor  was  ill.  The  next  day  he  lay  in  the 
wagon,  his  chest  oppressed,  fever  burning  him  to 
the  dryness  of  an  autumn  leaf.  To  the  heads  that 
looked  upon  him  through  the  circular  opening  with 
a  succession  of  queries  as  to  his  ailment,  he  in 
variably  answered  that  it  was  nothing,  a  bronchial 
cold,  sent  to  him  as  a  punishment  for  disobeying  his 
daughter.  But  the  young  men  remembered  that 
the  journey  had  been  undertaken  for  his  health,  and 
Daddy  John,  in  the  confidential  hour  of  the 
evening  smoke,  told  them  that  the  year  before  an 
attack  of  congestion  of  the  lungs  had  been  almost 
fatal. 

Even  if  they  had  not  known  this,  Susan's  de 
meanor  would  have  told  them  it  was  a  serious  mat 
ter.  She  was  evidently  wracked  by  anxiety  which 
transformed  her  into  a  being  so  distant,  and  at 
times  so  cross,  that  only  Daddy  John  had  the  temer 
ity  to  maintain  his  usual  attitude  toward  her.  She 
would  hardly  speak  to  Leff,  and  to  David,  the 
slighting  coldness  that  she  had  shown  in  the  begin 
ning  continued,  holding  him  at  arm's  length,  freez 
ing  him  into  stammering  confusion.  When  he 
tried  to  offer  her  help  or  cheer  her  she  made  him 
feel  like  a  foolish  and  tactless  intruder,  forcing  his 

172 


The  River 

way  into  the  place  that  was  hers  alone.  He  did 
not  know  whether  she  was  prompted  by  a  cruel  per 
versity,  or  held  in  an  absorption  so  intense  she  had 
no  warmth  of  interest  left  for  anybody.  He  tried 
to  explain  her  conduct,  but  he  could  only  feel  its 
effect,  wonder  if  she  had  grown  to  dislike  him,  re 
view  the  last  week  in  a  search  for  a  cause.  In  the 
daytime  he  hung  about  the  doctor's  wagon,  miser 
ably  anxious  for  a  word  from  her.  He  was  grate 
ful  if  she  asked  him  to  hunt  for  medicine  in  the 
small,  wooden  chest,  or  to  spread  the  blankets  to 
air  on  the  tops  of  the  lupine  bushes. 

And  while  she  thus  relegated  him  to  the  outer 
places  where  strangers  hovered,  a  sweetness,  so 
gentle,  so  caressing,  so  all  pervading  that  it  made 
of  her  a  new  and  lovely  creature,  marked  her  man 
ner  to  the  sick  man.  There  had  always  been  love 
in  her  bearing  to  her  father,  but  this  new  tender 
ness  was  as  though  some  hidden  well  of  it,  sunk 
deep  in  the  recesses  of  her  being,  had  suddenly  over 
flowed.  David  saw  the  hardness  of  the  face  she 
turned  toward  him  transmute  into  a  brooding  pas 
sion  of  affection  as  she  bent  over  the  doctor's  bed. 
The  fingers  he  did  not  dare  to  touch  lifted  the  sick 
man's  hand  to  her  cheek  and  held  it  there  while  she 
smiled  down  at  him,  her  eyes  softening  with  a  light 
that  stirred  the  lover's  soul.  The  mystery  of  this 
feminine  complexity  awed  him.  Would  she  ever 
look  at  him  like  that?  What  could  he  do  to  make 
her?  He  knew  of  no  other  way  than  by  serving 
her,  trying  unobtrusively  to  lighten  her  burden, 

173 


The  Emigrant  Trail 

effacing  himself,  as  that  seemed  to  be  what  she 
wanted.  And  in  the  night  as  he  lay  near  the  wagon, 
ready  to  start  at  her  call,  he  thought  with  exalted 
hope  that  some  day  he  might  win  such  a  look  for 
himself. 

The  doctor  was  for  going  on.  There  was  no 
necessity  to  stay  in  camp  because  one  man  happened 
to  wheeze  and  cough,  he  said,  and  anyway,  he  could 
do  that  just  as  well  when  they  were  moving.  So 
they  started  out  and  crossed  the  plateau  to  where 
the  road  dropped  into  the  cleft  of  Ash  Hollow. 
Here  they  stopped  and  held  a  conference.  The 
doctor  was  worse.  The  interior  of  the  wagon,  the 
sun  beating  on  the  canvas  roof,  was  like  a  furnace, 
where  he  lay  sweltering,  tossed  this  way  and  that 
by  the  jolting  wheels.  Their  dust  moved  with 
them,  breezes  lifting  it  and  carrying  it  careening 
back  to  them  where  it  mingled  with  new  dust, 
hanging  dense  like  a  segment  of  fog  in  the  scene's 
raw  brilliancy. 

Ash  Hollow  looked  a  darkling  descent,  the  thin 
pulsations  of  the  little  leaves  of  ash  trees  flickering 
along  its  sides.  The  road  bent  downward  in  sharp 
zigzags,  and  somewhere  below  the  North  Fork  ran. 
The  plain  was  free,  blue  clothed  and  blue  vaulted, 
with  "  the  wonderful  winds  of  God  "  flowing  be 
tween.  The  conference  resulted  in  a  unanimous  de 
cision  to  halt  where  they  were,  and  stay  in  camp  till 
the  doctor  improved,  moving  him  from  the  wagon 
to  a  tent. 

For  four  days  he  lay  parched  with  fever,  each 


The  River 

breath  drawn  with  a  stifled  inner  rustling,  numer 
ous  fine  wrinkles  traced  in  a  network  on  his  dried 
cheeks.  Then  good  care,  the  open  air,  and  the 
medicine  chest  prevailed.  He  improved,  and  Susan 
turned  her  face  again  to  the  world  and  smiled. 
Such  was  the  changefulness  of  her  mood  that  her 
smiles  were  as  radiant  and  generously  bestowed  as 
her  previous  demeanor  had  been  repelling.  Even 
Leff  got  some  of  them,  and  they  fell  on  David 
prodigal  and  warming  as  the  sunshine.  Words  to 
match  went  with  them.  On  the  morning  of  the 
day  when  the  doctor's  temperature  fell  and  he  could 
breathe  with  ease,  she  said  to  her  betrothed : 

"  Oh,  David,  you've  been  so  good,  you've  made 
me  so  fond  of  you." 

It  was  the  nearest  she  had  yet  come  to  the  lan 
guage  of  lovers.  It  made  him  dizzy ;  the  wonderful 
look  was  in  his  mind. 

"  You  wouldn't  let  me  be  good/'  was  all  he  could 
stammer.  "  You  didn't  seem  as  if  you  wanted  me 
at  all." 

"  Stupid !  "  she  retorted  with  a  glance  of  beam 
ing  reproach,  "  I'm  always  like  that  when  my 
father's  sick." 

It  was  noon  of  the  fifth  day  that  a  white  spot 
on  the  plain  told  them  the  New  York  Company  was 
in  sight.  The  afternoon  was  yet  young  when  the 
dust  of  the  moving  column  tarnished  the  blue- 
streaked  distance.  Then  the  first  wagons  came  into 
view,  creeping  along  the  winding  ribbon  of  road. 
As  soon  as  the  advance  guard  of  horsemen  saw  the 


The  Emigrant  Trail 

camp,  pieces  of  it  broke  away  and  were  deflected 
toward  the  little  group  of  tents  from  which  a  tiny 
spiral  of  smoke  went  up  in  an  uncoiling,  milky 
skein.  Susan  had  many  questions  to  answer,  and 
had  some  ado  to  keep  the  inquirers  away  from  the 
doctor,  who  was  still  too  weak  to  be  disturbed. 
She  was  sharp  and  not  very  friendly  in  her  efforts 
to  preserve  him  from  their  sympathizing  curiosity. 

Part  of  the  train  had  gone  by  when  she  heard 
from  a  woman  who  rode  up  on  a  foot-sore  nag  that 
the  McMurdo's  were  some  distance  behind.  A  bull 
boat  in  which  the  children  were  crossing  the  river 
had  upset,  and  Mrs.  McMurdo  had  been  frightened 
and  "  took  faint."  The  children  were  all  right — 
only  a  wetting — but  it  was  a  bad  time  for  their 
mother  to  get  such  a  scare. 

"  I'm  not  with  the  women  who  think  it's  all  right 
to  take  such  risks.  Stay  at  home  then,"  she  said, 
giving  Susan  a  sage  nod  out  of  the  depths  of  her 
sunbonnet. 

The  news  made  the  young  girl  uneasy.  A  new 
reticence,  the  "  grown-up  "  sense  of  the  wisdom  of 
silence  that  she  had  learned  on  the  trail,  made  her 
keep  her  own  council.  Also,  there  was  no  one  to 
tell  but  her  father,  and  he  was  the  last  person  who 
ought  to  know.  The  call  of  unaided  suffering 
would  have  brought  him  as  quickly  from  his  buf 
falo  skins  in  the  tent  as  from  his  bed  in  the  old 
home  in  Rochester.  Susan  resolved  to  keep  it  from 
him,  if  she  had  to  stand  guard  over  him  and  fight 
them  off.  Her  philosophy  was  primitive — her  own 


The  River 

first,  and  if,  to  save  her  own,  others  must  be  sacri 
ficed,  then  she  would  aid  in  the  sacrifice  and  weep 
over  its  victims,  weep,  but  not  yield. 

When  the  train  had  disappeared  into  the  shad 
ows  of  Ash  Hollow,  curses,  shouts,  and  the  crack 
ing  of  whips  rising  stormily  over  its  descent,  the 
white  dot  of  the  McMurdo's  wagon  was  moving 
over  the  blue  and  green  distance.  As  it  drew  near 
they  could  see  that  Glen  walked  beside  the  oxen, 
and  the  small  figure  of  Bob  ran  by  the  wheel.  Nei 
ther  of  the  women  were  to  be  seen.  "  Lazy  and 
riding,"  Daddy  John  commented,  spying  at  them 
with  his  far-sighted  old  eyes.  "  Tired  out  and  gone 
to  sleep,"  David  suggested.  Susan's  heart  sank 
and  she  said  nothing.  It  looked  as  if  something 
was  the  matter,  and  she  nerved  herself  for  a 
struggle. 

When  Glen  saw  them,  his  shout  came  through 
the  clear  air,  keen-edged  as  a  bird's  cry.  They  an 
swered,  and  he  raised  a  hand  in  a  gesture  that 
might  have  been  a  beckoning  or  merely  a  hail. 
David  leaped  on  a  horse  and  went  galloping  through 
the  bending  heads  of  the  lupines  to  meet  them. 
Susan  watched  him  draw  up  at  Glen's  side,  lean 
from  his  saddle  for  a  moment's  parley,  then  turn 
back.  The  gravity  of  his  face  increased  her  dread. 
He  dismounted,  looking  with  scared  eyes  from  one 
to  the  other.  Mrs.  McMurdo  was  sick.  Glen  was 
glad — he  couldn't  say  how  glad — that  it  was  their 
camp.  He'd  camp  there  with  them.  His  wife 
wasn't  able  to  go  on. 

177, 


The  Emigrant  Trail 

Susan  edged  up  to  him,  caught  his  eye  and  said 
stealthily : 

"  Don't  tell  my  father." 

He  hesitated. 

"  They — they — seemed  to  want  him." 

"  I'll  see  to  that,"  she  answered.  "  Don't  you 
let  him  know  that  anything's  the  matter,  or  I'll 
never  forgive  you." 

It  was  a  command,  and  the  glance  that  went  with 
it  accented  its  authority. 

The  prairie  schooner  was  now  close  at  hand,  and 
they  straggled  forward  to  meet  it,  one  behind  the 
other,  through  the  brushing  of  the  knee-high  bushes. 
The  child  recognizing  them  ran  screaming  toward 
them,  his  hands  out-stretched,  crying  out  their 
names.  Lucy  appeared  at  the  front  of  the  wagon, 
climbed  on  the  tongue  and  jumped  down.  She 
was  pale,  the  freckles  on  her  fair  skin  showing 
like  a  spattering  of  brown  paint,  her  flaming  hair 
slipped  in  a  tousled  coil  to  one  side  of  her 
head. 

"It's  you!"  she  cried.  "Glen  didn't  know 
whose  camp  it  was  till  he  saw  David.  Oh,  I'm  so 
glad !  "  and  she  ran  to  Susan,  clutched  her  arm 
and  said  in  a  hurried  lower  key,  "  Bella's  sick.  She 
feels  terribly  bad,  out  here  in  this  place  with  noth 
ing.  Isn't  it  dreadful  ?  " 

"  I'll  speak  to  her,"  said  Susan.  "  You  stay 
here." 

The  oxen,  now  at  the  outskirts  of  the  camp,  had 
come  to  a  standstill.  Susan  stepping  on  the  wheel 


The  River 

drew  herself  up  to  the  driver's  seat.  Bella  sat 
within  on  a  pile  of  sacks,  her  elbows  on  her  knees, 
her  forehead  in  her  hands.  By  her  side,  leaning 
against  her,  stood  the  little  girl,  blooming  and 
thoughtful,  her  thumb  in  her  mouth.  She  with 
drew  it  and  stared  fixedly  at  Susan,  then  smiled  a 
slow,  shy  smile,  full  of  meaning,  as  if  her  mind 
held  a  mischievous  secret.  At  Susan's  greeting  the 
mother  lifted  her  head. 

"  Oh,  Susan,  isn't  it  a  mercy  we've  found  you  ?  " 
she  exclaimed.  "  We  saw  the  camp  hours  ago,  but 
we  didn't  know  it  was  yours.  It's  as  if  God  had 
delayed  you.  Yes,  my  dear,  it's  come.  But  I'm 
not  going  to  be  afraid.  With  your  father  it'll  be 
all  right." 

The  young  girl  said  a  few  consolatory  words  and 
jumped  down  from  the  wheel.  She  was  torn  both 
ways.  Bella's  plight  was  piteous,  but  to  make  her 
father  rise  in  his  present  state  of  health  and  attend 
such  a  case,  hours  long,  in  the  chill,  night  breath 
of  the  open — it  might  kill  him !  She  turned  toward 
the  camp,  vaguely  conscious  of  the  men  standing 
in  awkward  attitudes  and  looking  thoroughly  un 
comfortable  as  though  they  felt  a  vicarious  sense 
of  guilt — that  the  entire  male  sex  had  something 
to  answer  for  in  Bella's  tragic  predicament.  Be 
hind  them  stood  the  doctor's  tent,  and  as  her 
eyes  fell  on  it  she  saw  Lucy's  body  standing  in 
the  opening,  the  head  and  shoulders  hidden  with 
in  the  inclosure.  Lucy  was  speaking  with  the 
doctor. 

179 


The  Emigrant  Trail 

Susan  gave  a  sharp  exclamation  and  stopped.  It 
was  too  late  to  interfere.  Lucy  withdrew  her  head 
and  came  running  back,  crying  triumphantly : 

"  Your  father's  coming.  He  says  he's  not  sick  at 
all.  He's  putting  on  his  coat." 

Following  close  on  her  words  came  the  doctor, 
emerging  slowly,  for  he  was  weak  and  unsteady. 
In  the  garish  light  of  the  afternoon  he  looked  sin 
gularly  white  and  bleached,  like  a  man  whose 
warm,  red-veined  life  is  dried  into  a  sere  grayness 
of  blood  and  tissue.  He  was  out  of  harmony  with 
the  glad  living  colors  around  him,  ghostlike  amid 
the  brightness  of  the  flowering  earth  and  the  deep- 
dyed  heaven.  He  met  his  daughter's  eyes  and 
smiled. 

"  Your  prisoner  has  escaped  you,  Missy." 

She  tried  to  control  herself,  to  beat  down  the 
surge  of  anger  that  shook  her.  Meeting  him  she 
implored  with  low-toned  urgence : 

"  Father,  you  can't  do  it.  Go  back.  You're  too 
sick." 

He  pushed  her  gently  away,  his  smile  gone. 

"  Go  back,  Missy  ?  The  woman  is  suffering, 
dear." 

"  I  know  it,  and  I  don't  care.  You're  suffering, 
you're  sick.  She  should  have  known  better  than  to 
come.  It's  her  fault,  not  ours.  Because  she  was  so 
foolhardy  is  no  reason  why  you  should  be  victim 
ized." 

His  gravity  was  crossed  by  a  look  of  cold,  dis 
pleased  surprise,  a  look  she  had  not  seen  directed 

1 80 


The  River 

upon  her  since  once  in  her  childhood  when  she  had 
told  him  a  lie. 

"  I  don't  want  to  feel  ashamed  of  you,  Missy/' 
he  said  quietly,  and  putting  her  aside  went  on  to 
the  wagon. 

She  turned  away  blinded  with  rage  and  tears. 
She  had  a  dim  vision  of  David  and  fled  from  it, 
then  felt  relief  at  the  sight  of  Daddy  John.  He 
saw  her  plight,  and  hooking  his  hand  in  her  arm 
took  her  behind  the  tent,  where  she  burst  into  furi 
ous  words  and  a  gush  of  stifled  weeping. 

"  No  good,"  was  the  old  man's  consolation. 
"  Do  you  expect  the  doctor  to  lie  comfortable  in  his 
blanket  when  there's  some  one  around  with  a 
pain?" 

"Why  did  she  come?  Why  didn't  she  stay  at 
home?" 

'  That  ain't  in  the  question,"  he  said,  patting  her 
arm ;  "  she's  here,  and  she's  got  the  pain,  and  you 
and  I  know  the  doctor." 

The  McMurdo's  prairie  schooner  rolled  off  to  a 
place  where  the  lupines  were  high,  and  Glen  pitched 
the  tent.  The  men,  not  knowing  what  else  to  do 
to  show  their  sympathy,  laid  the  fires  and  cleaned 
the  camp.  Then  the  two  younger  ones  shouldered 
their  rifles  and  wandered  away  to  try  and  get  some 
fresh  buffalo  meat,  they  said;  but  it  was  obvious 
that  they  felt  out  of  place  and  alarmed  in  a  situa 
tion  where  those  of  their  sex  could  only  assume  an 
apologetic  attitude  and  admit  the  blame. 

The   children  were   left  to   Susan's  care.      She 
181 


The  Emigrant  Trail 

drew  them  to  the  cleared  space  about  the  fires,  and 
as  she  began  the  preparations  for  supper  asked 
them  to  help.  They  took  the  request  very  seriously, 
and  she  found  a  solace  in  watching  them  as  they 
trotted  up  with  useless  pans,  bending  down  to  see 
the  smile  of  thanks  to  which  they  were  accustomed, 
and  which  made  them  feel  proud  and  important. 
Once  she  heard  Bob,  in  the  masterful  voice  of  the 
male,  tell  his  sister  the  spoon  she  was  so  trium 
phantly  bringing  was  not  wanted.  The  baby's  joy 
was  stricken  from  her,  she  bowed  to  the  higher  in 
telligence,  and  the  spoon  slid  from  her  limp  hand 
to  the  ground,  while  she  stood  a  figure  of  blank 
disappointment.  Susan  had  to  set  down  her  pan 
and  call  her  over,  and  kneeling  with  the  soft  body 
clasped  close,  and  the  little  knees  pressing  against 
her  breast,  felt  some  of  the  anger  there  melting 
away.  After  that  they  gathered  broken  twigs  of 
lupine,  and  standing  afar  threw  them  at  the  flames. 
There  was  a  moment  of  suspense  when  they 
watched  hopefully,  and  then  a  sad  awakening  when 
the  twigs  fell  about  their  feet.  They  shuffled  back, 
staring  down  at  the  scattered  leaves  in  a  stupor  of 
surprise. 

Sunset  came  and  supper  was  ready.  Daddy  John 
loomed  up  above  the  lip  of  Ash  Hollow  with  a  load 
of  roots  and  branches  for  the  night.  Lucy  emerged 
from  the  tent  and  sat  down  by  her  cup  and  plate, 
harrassed  and  silent.  Glen  said  he  wanted  no  sup 
per.  He  had  been  sitting  for  an  hour  on  the  pole  of 
David's  wagon,  mute  and  round-shouldered  in  his 

182 


The  River 

dusty  homespuns.  No  one  had  offered  to  speak  to 
him.  It  was  he  who  had  induced  the  patient  woman 
to  follow  him  on  the  long  journey.  They  all  knew 
this  was  now  the  matter  of  his  thoughts.  His  rag 
ged  figure  and  down-drooped,  miserable  face  were 
dignified  with  the  tragedy  of  a  useless  remorse.  As 
Lucy  passed  him  he  raised  his  eyes,  but  said  noth 
ing.  Then,  as  the  others  drew  together  round  the 
circle  of  tin  cups  and  plates,  a  groan  came  suddenly 
from  the  tent.  He  leaped  up,  made  a  gesture  of 
repelling  something  unendurable,  and  ran  away, 
scudding  across  the  plain  not  looking  back.  The 
group  round  the  fire  were  silent.  But  the  two  chil 
dren  did  not  heed.  With  their  blond  heads  touch 
ing,  they  held  their  cups  close  together  and  argued 
as  to  which  one  had  the  most  coffee  in  it. 

When  the  twilight  came  there  was  no  one  left  by 
the  fire  but  Susan  and  the  children.  She  gathered 
them  on  a  buffalo  robe  and  tucked  a  blanket  round 
them  watching  as  sleep  flowed  over  them,  invaded 
and  subdued  them  even  while  their  lips  moved  with 
belated,  broken  murmurings.  The  little  girl's 
hand,  waving  dreamily  in  the  air,  brushed  her 
cheek  with  a  velvet  touch,  and  sank  languidly,  up- 
curled  like  a  rose  petal.  With  heads  together  and 
bodies  nestled  close  they  slept,  exhaling  the  fra 
grance  of  healthy  childhood,  two  sparks  of  matter 
incased  in  an  envelope  of  exquisite  flesh,  pearly  tis 
sue  upon  which  life  would  trace  a  pattern  not  yet 
selected. 

Darkness  closed  down  on  the  camp,  pressing  on 

183 


The  Emigrant  Trail 

the  edges  of  the  firelight  like  a  curious  intruder. 
There  was  no  wind,  and  the  mound  of  charring 
wood  sent  up  a  line  of  smoke  straight  as  a  thread, 
which  somewhere  aloft  widened  and  dissolved. 
The  stillness  of  the  wilderness  brooded  close  and 
deep,  stifling  the  noises  of  the  day.  When  the 
sounds  of  suffering  from  the  tent  tore  the  airy  veil 
apart,  it  shuddered  full  of  the  pain,  then  the  torn 
edges  delicately  adhered,  and  it  was  whole  again. 
Once  Lucy  came,  haggard  and  tight-lipped,  and 
asked  Susan  to  put  on  water  to  heat.  Bella  was 
terribly  sick,  the  doctor  wouldn't  leave  her.  The 
other  children  were  nothing  to  this.  But  the  Emi 
grant  Trail  was  molding  Lucy.  She  made  no  com 
plaints,  and  her  nerves  were  steady  as  a  taut  string. 
It  was  one  of  the  hazards  of  the  great  adventure 
to  be  taken  as  it  came. 

After  she  had  gone,  and  the  iron  kettle  was  bal 
anced  on  a  bed  of  heat,  Susan  lay  down  on  her 
blanket.  Fear  and  loathing  were  on  her.  For  the 
first  time  a  shrinking  from  life  and  its  require 
ments  came  coldly  over  her,  for  the  first  time  her 
glad  expectancy  knew  a  check,  fell  back  before  tre 
mendous  things  blocking  the  path.  Her  dread  for 
her  father  was  submerged  in  a  larger  dread — of 
the  future  and  what  it  might  bring,  of  what  might 
be  expected  of  her,  of  pains  and  perils  once  so  far 
away  they  seemed  as  if  she  would  never  reach  them, 
now  suddenly  close  to  her,  laying  a  gripping  hand 
on  her  heart. 

Her  face  was  toward  the  camp,  and  she  could 
184 


The  River 

not  see  on  the  plain  behind  her  a  moving  shadow 
bearing  down  on  the  fire's  glow,  visible  for  miles 
in  that  level  country.  It  advanced  noiselessly 
through  the  swaying  bushes,  till,  entering  the  lim 
its  of  the  light,  it  detached  itself  from  the  darkness, 
taking  the  form  of  a  mounted  man  followed  by  a 
pack  animal.  The  projected  rays  of  red  played 
along  the  barrel  of  a  rifle  held  across  the  saddle, 
and  struck  answering  gleams  from  touches  of  metal 
on  the  bridle.  So  soundless  was  the  approach  that 
Susan  heard  nothing  till  a  lupine  stalk  snapped  un 
der  the  horse's  hoof.  She  sat  up  and  turned.  Over 
the  horse's  ears  she  saw  a  long  swarthy  face 
framed  in  hanging  hair,  and  the  glint  of  narrowed 
eyes  looking  curiously  at  her.  She  leaped  to  her 
feet  with  a  smothered  cry,  Indians  in  her  mind. 
The  man  raised  a  quick  hand,  and  said : 

"  It's  all  right.     It's  a  white  man." 

He  slid  off  his  horse  and  came  toward  her.  He 
was  so  like  an  Indian,  clad  in  a  fringed  hunting 
shirt  and  leggings,  his  movements  lithe  and  light, 
his  step  noiseless,  his  skin  copper  dark,  that  she 
stood  alert,  ready  to  raise  a  warning  cry.  Then 
coming  into  the  brighter  light  she  saw  he  was 
white,  with  long  red  hair  hanging  from  the  edge 
of  his  cap,  and  light-colored  eyes  that  searched  her 
face  with  a  hard  look.  He  was  as  wild  a  figure  as 
any  the  plains  had  yet  given  up,  and  she  drew  away 
looking  fearfully  at  him. 

"  Don't  be  afraid,"  he  said  in  a  deep  voice.  "  I'm 
the  same  kind  as  you." 

185 


The  Emigrant  Trail 

"  Who  are  you?  "  she  faltered. 

"  A  mountain  man.  I'll  camp  with  you."  Then 
glancing  about,  "  Where  are  the  rest  of  them?  " 

"  They're  round  somewhere,"  she  answered. 
"  We  have  sickness  here." 

"Cholera?"  quickly. 

She  shook  her  head. 

Without  more  words  he  went  back  and  picketed 
his  horses,  and  took  the  pack  and  saddle  off.  She 
could  see  his  long,  pale-colored  figure  moving  from 
darkness  into  light,  and  the  animals  drooping  with 
stretched  necks  as  their  bonds  were  loosened. 
When  he  came  back  to  the  fire  he  dropped  a  blan 
ket  and  laid  his  gun  close  to  it,  then  threw  himself 
down.  The  rattle  of  the  powder  horn  and  bullet 
mold  he  wore  hanging  from  his  shoulder  came  with 
the  movement.  He  slipped  the  strap  off  and  threw 
it  beside  the  gun.  Then  drew  one  foot  up  and  un 
fastened  a  large  spur  attached  to  his  moccasined 
heel.  He  wore  a  ragged  otter-skin  cap,  the  ani 
mal's  tail  hanging  down  on  one  side.  This  he  took 
off  too,  showing  his  thick  red  hair,  damp  and  mat 
ted  from  the.  heat  of  the  fur.  With  a  knotted  hand 
he  pushed  back  the  locks  pressed  down  on  his  fore 
head.  The  skin  there  was  untanned  and  lay  like  a 
white  band  above  the  darkness  of  his  face,  thin, 
edged  with  a  fringe  of  red  beard  and  with  blue 
eyes  set  high  above  prominent  cheek  bones.  He 
threw  his  spur  on  the  other  things,  and  looking  up 
met  Susan's  eyes  staring  at  him  across  the  fire. 

"  Where  are  you  going?  "  he  asked. 
186 


The  River 

"To  California." 

"  So  am  I." 

She  made  no  answer. 

"  Were  you  asleep  when  I  came  ?  " 

"  No,  I  was  thinking." 

A  sound  of  anguish  came  from  the  tent,  and 
Susan  set  her  teeth  on  her  underlip  stiffening.  He 
looked  in  its  direction,  then  back  at  her. 

"What's  the  matter  there?"  he  asked. 

"  A  child  is  being  born." 

He  made  no  comment,  swept  the  background  of 
tents  and  wagon  roofs  with  an  investigating  eye 
that  finally  came  to  a  stop  on  the  sleeping  children. 

"  Are  these  yours?  " 

"  No,  they  belong  to  the  woman  who  is  sick." 

His  glance  left  them  as  if  uninterested,  and  he 
leaned  backward  to  pull  his  blanket  out  more  fully. 
His  body,  in  the  sleekly  pliant  buckskins,  was  lean 
and  supple.  As  he  twisted,  stretching  an  arm  to 
draw  out  the  crumpled  folds,  the  lines  of  his  long 
back  and  powerful  shoulders  showed  the  sinuous 
grace  of  a  cat.  He  relaxed  into  easeful  full  length, 
propped  on  an  elbow,  his  red  hair  coiling  against 
his  neck.  Susan  stole  a  stealthy  glance  at  him.  As 
if  she  had  spoken,  he  instantly  raised  his  head  and 
looked  into  her  eyes. 

His  were  clear  and  light  with  a  singularly  pene 
trating  gaze,  not  bold  but  intent,  eyes  not  used  to 
the  detailed  observation  of  the  peopled  ways,  but 
trained  to  unimpeded  distances  and  to  search  the 
faces  of  primitive  men.  They  held  hers,  seeming 


The  Emigrant  Trail 

to  pierce  the  acquired  veneer  of  reserve  to  the 
guarded  places  beneath.  She  felt  a  slow  stir  of  an 
tagonism,  a  defensive  gathering  of  her  spirit  as 
against  an  intruder.  Her  pride  and  self-sufficiency 
responded,  answering  to  a  hurried  summons.  She 
was  conscious  of  a  withdrawal,  a  closing  of  doors, 
a  shutting  down  of  her  defenses  in  face  of  aggres 
sion  and  menace.  And  while  she  rallied  to  this 
sudden  call-to-arms  the  strange  man  held  her  glance 
across  the  fire.  It  was  she  who  spoke  slowly  in  a 
low  voice : 

"  Where  do  you  come  from?  " 

"  From  Taos,  and  after  that  Bent's  Fort." 

:t  What  is  your  name  ?  " 

"  Low  Courant." 

Then  with  an  effort  she  turned  away  and  bent 
over  the  children.  When  she  looked  back  at  him  he 
was  rolled  in  his  blanket,  and  with  his  face  to  the 
fire  was  asleep. 

Lucy  came  presently  for  the  hot  water  with  a 
bulletin  of  progress  growing  each  moment  more 
direful.  Her  eyes  fell  on  the  sleeping  man,  and  she 
said,  peering  through  the  steam  of  the  bubbling 
water : 

"Who's  that?" 

"  A  strange  man." 

"From  where?" 

'Taos,  and  after  that  Bent's  Fort,"  Susan  re 
peated,  and  Lucy  forgot  him  and  ran  back  to  the 
tent. 

There  was  a  gray  line  in  the  east  when  she  re- 
188 


The  River 

turned  to  say  the  child  was  born  dying  as  it  entered 
the  world,  and  Bella  was  in  desperate  case.  She 
fell  beside  her  friend,  quivering  and  sobbing,  bury 
ing  her  face  in  Susan's  bosom.  Shaken  and  sick 
ened  by  the  dreadful  night  they  clung  together 
holding  to  each  other,  as  if  in  a  world  where  love 
claimed  such  a  heavy  due,  where  joy  realized  itself 
at  such  exceeding  cost,  nothing  was  left  but  the 
bond  of  a  common  martyrdom.  Yet  each  of  them, 
knowing  the  measure  of  her  pain,  would  move  to 
the  head  of  her  destiny  and  take  up  her  heavy  en 
gagement  without  fear,  obeying  the  universal  law. 
But  now,  caught  in  the  terror  of  the  moment, 
they  bowed  their  heads  and  wept  together  while  the 
strange  man  slept  by  the  fire. 


PART  III 
The  Mountains 


CHAPTER   I 

FORT  LARAMIE  stood  where  the  eastern  roots  of 
the  mountains  start  in  toothed  reef  and  low,  pre 
monitory  sweep  from  the  level  of  the  plains. 
Broken  chains  and  spurs  edged  up  toward  it.  Far 
beyond,  in  a  faint  aerial  distance,  the  soaring  solid 
ity  of  vast  ranges  hung  on  the  horizon,  cloudy 
crests  painted  on  the  sky.  Laramie  Peak  loomed 
closer,  a  bold,  bare  point,  gold  in  the  morning,  pur 
ple  at  twilight  And  the  Black  Hills,  rock-ribbed 
and  somber,  dwarf  pines  clutching  their  lodges, 
rose  in  frowning  ramparts  to  the  North  and  West. 

It  was  a  naked  country,  bleak  and  bitter.  In 
winter  it  slept  under  a  snow  blanket,  the  lights  of 
the  fort  encircled  by  the  binding,  breathless  cold. 
Then  the  wandering  men  that  trapped  and  traded 
with  the  Indians  came  seeking  shelter  behind  the 
white  walls,  where  the  furs  were  stacked  in  store 
rooms,  and  the  bourgeois'  table  was  hospitable 
with  jerked  meat  and  meal  cakes.  When  the 
streams  began  to  stir  under  the  ice,  and  a  thin 
green  showed  along  the  bottoms,  it  opened  its  gates 
and  the  men  of  the  mountains  went  forth  with  their 
traps  rattling  at  the  saddle  horn.  Later,  when  the 
spring  was  in  waking  bloom,  and  each  evening  the 
light  stayed  longer  on  Laramie  Peak,  the  Indians 

193 


The  Emigrant  Trail 

came  in  migrating  villages  moving  to  the  summer 
hunting  grounds,  and  in  painted  war  parties,  for 
there  was  a  season  when  the  red  man,  like  the  He 
brew  kings,  went  forth  to  battle. 

It  was  midsummer  now,  the  chalk-white  walls 
of  the  fort  were  bathed  in  a  scorching  sunshine, 
and  the  nomads  of  the  wilderness  met  and  picked 
up  dropped  threads  in  its  courtyard.  It  stood  up 
warlike  on  a  rise  of  ground  with  the  brown  swift 
ness  of  a  stream  hurrying  below  it.  Once  the  fac 
tors  had  tried  to  cultivate  the  land,  but  had  given 
it  up,  as  the  Indians  carried  off  the  maize  and  corn 
as  it  ripened.  So  the  short-haired  grass  grew  to 
the  stockade.  At  this  season  the  surrounding  plain 
was  thick  with  grazing  animals,  the  fort's  own  sup 
ply,  the  ponies  of  the  Indians,  and  the  cattle  of  the 
emigrants.  Encampments  were  on  every  side,  clus 
tering  close  under  the  walls,  whence  a  cannon  poked 
its  nose  protectingly  from  the  bastion  above  the 
gate.  There  was  no  need  to  make  the  ring  of 
wagons  here.  White  man  and  red  camped  to 
gether,  the  canvas  peaks  of  the  tents  showing  be 
side  the  frames  of  lodge  poles,  covered  with  dried 
skins.  The  pale  face  treated  his  red  brother  to  cof 
fee  and  rice  cakes,  and  the  red  brother  offered  in 
return  a  feast  of  boiled  dog. 

Just  now  the  fort  was  a  scene  of  ceaseless  anima 
tion.  Its  courtyard  was  a  kaleidoscopic  whirl  of 
color,  shifting  as  the  sun  shifted  and  the  shadow 
of  the  walls  offered  shade.  Indians  with  bodies 
bare  above  the  dropped  blankets,  moved  stately  or 

194 


The  Mountains 

squatted  on  their  heels  watching  the  emigrants  as 
they  bartered  for  supplies.  Trappers  in  fringed 
and  beaded  leather  played  cards  with  the  plainsmen 
in  shady  corners  or  lounged  in  the  cool  arch  of  the 
gateway  looking  aslant  at  the  emigrant  girls. 
Their  squaws,  patches  of  color  against  the  walls, 
sat  docile,  with  the  swarthy,  half-breed  children 
playing  about  their  feet.  There  were  French  Cana 
dians,  bearded  like  pirates,  full  of  good  humor,  fill 
ing  the  air  with  their  patois,  and  a  few  Mexicans, 
who  passed  the  days  sprawled  on  scrapes  and  smok 
ing  sleepily.  Over  all  the  bourgeois  ruled,  kindly 
or  crabbedly,  according  to  his  make,  but  always 
absolutely  the  monarch  of  a  little  principality. 

The  doctor's  train  had  reached  the  fort  by  slow 
stages,  and  now  lay  camped  outside  the  walls. 
Bella's  condition  had  been  serious,  and  they  had 
crawled  up  the  valley  of  the  North  Platte  at  a 
snail's  pace.  The  gradual  change  in  the  country 
told  them  of  their  advance — the  intrusion  of  giant 
bluffs  along  the  river's  edge,  the  disappearance  of 
the  many  lovely  flower  forms,  the  first  glimpses  of 
parched  areas  dotted  with  sage.  From  the  top  of 
Scotts  Bluffs  they  saw  the  mountains,  and  stood,  a 
way-worn  company,  looking  at  those  faint  and  for 
midable  shapes  that  blocked  their  path  to  the  Prom 
ised  Land.  It  was  a  sight  to  daunt  the  most  high 
hearted,  and  they  stared,  dropping  ejaculations  that 
told  of  the  first  decline  of  spirit.  Only  the  sick 
woman  said  nothing.  Her  languid  eye  swept  the 
prospect  indifferently,  her  spark  of  life  burning  too 

195 


The  Emigrant  Trail 

feebly  to  permit  of  any  useless  expenditure.  It  was 
the  strange  man  who  encouraged  them.  They 
would  pass  the  mountains  without  effort,  the  ascent 
was  gradual,  South  Pass  a  plain. 

The  strange  man  had  stayed  with  them,  and  all 
being  well,  would  go  on  to  Fort  Bridger,  probably 
to  California,  in  their  company.  It  was  good  news. 
He  was  what  they  needed,  versed  in  the  lore  of  the 
wilderness,  conversant  with  an  environment  of 
which  they  were  ignorant.  The  train  had  not 
passed  Ash  Hollow  when  he  fell  into  command, 
chose  the  camping  grounds,  went  ahead  in  search 
of  springs,  and  hunted  with  Daddy  John,  bringing 
back  enough  game  to  keep  them  supplied  with 
fresh  meat.  They  began  to  rely  upon  him,  to 
defer  to  him,  to  feel  a  new  security  when  they 
saw  his  light,  lean-flanked  figure  at  the  head  of  the 
caravan. 

One  morning,  as  the  doctor  rode  silently  beside 
him,  he  broke  into  a  low-toned  singing.  His  voice 
was  a  mellow  baritone,  and  the  words  he  sung,  each 
verse  ending  with  a  plaintive  burden,  were  French : 

"  II  y  a  longtemps  que  je  t'ai  aime  jamais  je  ne 
t'oublierai." 

Long  ago  the  doctor  had  heard  his  wife  sing  the 
same  words,  and  he  turned  with  a  start : 

"  Where  did  you  learn  that  song  ?  " 

"  From  some  voyageur  over  yonder,"  nodding 
toward  the  mountains.  "  It's  one  of  their  songs." 
'  You  have  an  excellent  accent,  better  than  the 
Canadians." 


The  Mountains 

The  stranger  laughed  and  addressed  his  com 
panion  in  pure  and  fluent  French. 

"  Then  you're  a  Frenchman  ?  "  said  the  elder 
man,  surprised. 

"  Not  I,  but  my  people  were.  They  came  from 
New  Orleans  and  went  up  the  river  and  settled  in 
St.  Louis.  My  grandfather  couldn't  speak  a  sen 
tence  in  English  when  he  first  went  there." 

When  the  doctor  told  his  daughter  this  he  wras 
a  little  triumphant.  »  They  had  talked  over  Courant 
and  his  antecedents,  and  had  some  argument  about 
them,  the  doctor  maintaining  that  the  strange 
man  was  a  gentleman,  Susan  quite  sure  that  he 
was  not.  Dr.  Gillespie  used  the  word  in  its  old- 
fashioned  sense,  as  a  term  having  reference  as 
much  to  birth  and  breeding  as  to  manners  and 
certain,  ineradicable  instincts.  The  gentleman  ad 
venturer  was  not  unknown  on  the  plains.  Some 
times  he  had  fled  from  a  dark  past,  sometimes 
taken  to  the  wild  because  the  restraints  of  civ 
ilization  pressed  too  hard  upon  the  elbows  qf  his 
liberty. 

"  He's  evidently  of  French  Creole  blood,"  said 
the  doctor.  "  Many  of  those  people  who  came  up 
from  New  Orleans  and  settled  in  St.  Louis  were 
of  high  family  and  station." 

"  Then  why  should  he  be  out  here,  dressed  like 
an  Indian  and  wandering  round  with  all  sorts  of 
waifs  and  strays?  I  believe  he's  just  the  same  kind 
of  person  as  old  Joe,  only  younger.  Or,  if  he  does 
come  from  educated  people,  there's  something 

197 


The  Emigrant  Trail 

wrong  about  him,  and  he's  had  to  come  out  here 
and  hide." 

"  Oh,  what  a  suspicious  little  Missy !  Nothing 
would  make  me  believe  that.  He  may  be  rough, 
but  he's  not  crooked.  Those  steady,  straight-look 
ing  eyes  never  belonged  to  any  but  an  honest  man. 
No,  my  dear,  there's  no  discreditable  past  behind 
him,  and  he's  a  gentleman." 

"  Rubbish !  "  she  said  pettishly.  "  You'll  be  say 
ing  Leff's  a  gentleman  next." 

From  which  it  will  be  seen  that  Low  Courant 
had  not  been  communicative  about  himself.  Such 
broken  scraps  of  information  as  he  had  dropped, 
when  pieced  together  made  a  scanty  narrative.  His 
grandfather  had  been  one  of  the  early  French  set 
tlers  of  St.  Louis,  and  his  father  a  prosperous  fur 
trader  there.  But  why  he  had  cut  loose  from  them 
he  did  not  vouchsafe  to  explain.  Though  he  was 
still  young — thirty  perhaps — it  was  evident  that  he 
had  wandered  far  and  for  many  years.  He  knew 
the  Indian  trails  of  the  distant  Northwest,  and 
spoke  the  language  of  the  Black  Feet  and  Crows. 
He  had  passed  a  winter  in  the  old  Spanish  town 
of  Santa  Fe,  and  from  there  joined  a  regiment  of 
LTnited  States  troops  and  done  his  share  of  fighting 
in  the  Mexican  War.  Now  the  wanderlust  was  on 
him,  he  was  going  to  California. 

"  Maybe  to  settle,"  he  told  the  doctor.  "  If  I 
don't  wake  up  some  morning  and  feel  the  need  to 
move  once  more." 

When  they  reached  the  fort  he  was  hailed  joy- 


The  Mountains 

ously  by  the  bourgeois  himself.  The  men  clustered 
about  him,  and  there  were  loud-voiced  greetings 
and  much  questioning,  a  rumor  having  filtered  to 
his  old  stamping  ground  that  he  had  been  killed  in 
the  siege  of  the  Alamo.  The  doctor  told  the  bour 
geois  that  Courant  was  to  go  with  his  train  to 
California,  and  the  apple-cheeked  factor  grinned 
and  raised  his  eyebrows : 

"  Vous-avez  de  la  chance!  He's  a  good  guide. 
Even  Kit  Carson,  who  conducted  the  General  Fre 
mont,  is  no  better." 

The  general  satisfaction  did  not  extend  to  Susan. 
The  faint  thrill  of  antagonism  that  the  man  had 
roused  in  her  persisted.  She  knew  he  was  a  gain 
to  the  party,  and  said  nothing.  She  was  growing 
rapidly  in  this  new,  toughening  life,  and  could  set 
her  own  small  prejudices  aside  in  the  wider  view 
that  each  day's  experience  was  teaching  her.  The 
presence  of  such  a  man  would  lighten  the  burden 
of  work  and  responsibility  that  lay  on  her  father, 
and  whatever  was  beneficial  to  the  doctor  was  ac 
cepted  by  his  daughter.  But  she  did  not  like  Low 
Courant.  Had  anyone  asked  her  why  she  could 
have  given  no  reason.  He  took  little  notice  of  any 
of  the  women,  treating  them  alike  with  a  brusque 
indifference  that  was  not  discourteous,  but  seemed 
to  lump  them  as  necessary  but  useless  units  in  an 
important  whole. 

The  train  was  the  focus  of  his  interest.  The 
acceleration  of  its  speed,  the  condition  of  the  cattle, 
the  combination  of  lightness  and  completeness  in 

199 


The  Emigrant  Trail 

its  make-up  were  the  matters  that  occupied  him. 
In  the  evening  hour  of  rest  these  were  the  subjects 
he  talked  of,  and  she  noticed  that  Daddy  John  was 
the  person  to  whom  he  talked  most.  With  averted 
eyes,  her  head  bent  to  David's  murmurings,  she  was 
really  listening  to  the  older  men.  Her  admiration 
was  reluctantly  evoked  by  the  stranger's  dominance 
and  vigor  of  will,  his  devotion  to  the  work  he  had 
undertaken.  She  felt  her  own  insignificance  and 
David's  also,  and  chafed  under  the  unfamiliar  sen 
sation. 

The  night  after  leaving  Ash  Hollow,  as  they  sat 
by  the  fire,  David  at  her  side,  the  doctor  had  told 
Courant  of  the  betrothal.  His  glance  passed 
quickly  over  the  two  conscious  faces,  he  gave  a 
short  nod  of  comprehension,  and  turning  to  Daddy 
John,  inquired  about  the  condition  of  the  mules' 
shoes.  Susan  reddened.  She  saw  something  of 
disparagement,  of  the  slightest  gleam  of  mockery, 
in  that  short  look,  which  touched  both  faces  and 
then  turned  from  them  as  from  the  faces  of  chil 
dren  playing  at  a  game.  Yes,  she  disliked  him,  dis 
liked  his  manner  to  Lucy  and  herself,  which  set 
them  aside  as  beings  of  a  lower  order,  that 
had  to  go  with  them  and  be  taken  care  of  like 
the  stock,  only  much  less  important  and  necessary. 
Even  to  Bella  he  was  off-hand  and  unsympathetic, 
unmoved  by  her  weakness,  as  he  had  been  by  her 
sufferings  the  night  he  came.  Susan  had  an  idea 
that  he  thought  Bella's  illness  a  misfortune,  not  so 
much  for  Bella  as  for  the  welfare  of  the  train. 

200 


The  Mountains 

They  had  been  at  the  fort  now  for  four  days 
and  were  ready  to  move  on.  The  wagons  were  re 
paired,  the  mules  and  horses  shod,  and  Bella  was 
mending,  though  still  unable  to  walk.  The  doctor 
had  promised  to  keep  beside  the  McMurdos  till  she 
was  well,  then  his  company  would  forge  ahead. 

In  the  heat  of  the  afternoon,  comfortable  in  a 
rim  of  shade  in  the  courtyard,  the  men  were  ar 
ranging  for  the  start  the  next  morning.  The  sun 
beat  fiercely  on  the  square  opening  roofed  by  the 
blue  of  the  sky  and  cut  by  the  black  shadow  of 
walls.  In  the  cooling  shade  the  motley  company 
lay  sprawling  on  the  ground  or  propped  against 
the  doors  of  the  store  rooms.  The  open  space  was 
brilliant  with  the  blankets  of  Indians,  the  bare 
limbs  of  brown  children,  and  the  bright  scrapes  of 
the  Mexicans,  who  were  too  lazy  to  move  out  of 
the  sun.  In  a  corner  the  squaws  played  a  game 
with  polished  cherry  stones  which  they  tossed  in  a 
shallow,  saucerlike  basket  and  let  drop  on  the 
ground. 

Susan,  half  asleep  on  a  buffalo  skin,  watched 
them  idly.  The  game  reminded  her  of  the  jack- 
stones  of  her  childhood.  Then  her  eye  slanted  to 
where  Lucy  stood  by  the  gate  talking  with  a  trap 
per  called  Zavier  Leroux.  The  sun  made  Lucy's 
splendid  hair  shine  like  a  flaming  nimbus,  and  the 
dark  men  of  the  mountains  and  the  plain  watched 
her  with  immovable  looks.  She  was  laughing,  her 
head  drooped  sideways.  Above  the  collar  of  her 
blouse  a  strip  of  neck,  untouched  by  tan,  showed 

201 


The  Emigrant  Trail 

in  a  milk-white  band.  Conscious  of  the  admiring 
observation,  she  instinctively  relaxed  her  muscles 
into  lines  of  flowing  grace,  and  lowered  her  eyes 
till  her  lashes  shone  in  golden  points  against  her 
freckled  cheeks.  With  entire  innocence  she  spread 
her  little  lure,  following  an  elemental  instinct,  that, 
in  the  normal  surroundings  of  her  present  life,  re 
leased  from  artificial  restraints,  was  growing 
stronger. 

Her  companion  was  a  voyageur,  a  half-breed, 
with  coarse  black  hair  hanging  from  a  scarlet  hand 
kerchief  bound  smooth  over  his  head.  He  was  of 
a  sinewy,  muscular  build,  his  coppery  skin,  hard 
black  eyes,  and  high  cheek  bones  showing  the  blood 
of  his  mother,  a  Crow  squaw.  His  father,  long 
forgotten  in  the  obscurity  of  mountain  history,  had 
evidently  bequeathed  him  the  French  Canadian's 
good-humored  gayety.  Zavier  was  a  light-hearted 
and  merry  fellow,  and  where  he  came  laughter 
sprang  up.  He  spoke  English  well,  and  could  sing 
French  songs  that  were  brought  to  his  father's 
country  by  the  adventurers  who  crossed  the  seas 
with  Jacques  Carrier. 

The  bourgeois,  who  was  aloft  on  the  bastion 
sweeping  the  distance  with  a  field  glass,  suddenly 
threw  an  announcement  down  on  the  courtyard: 

"  Red  Feather's  village  is  coming  and  an  emi 
grant  train." 

The  space  between  the  four  walls  immediately 
seethed  into  a  whirlpool  of  excitement.  It  eddied 
there  for  a  moment,  then  poured  through  the  gate- 

202 


The  Mountains 

way  into  the  long  drainlike  entrance  passage  and 
spread  over  the  grass  outside. 

Down  the  face  of  the  opposite  hill,  separated  from 
the  fort  by  a  narrow  river,  came  the  Indian  vil 
lage,  streaming  forward  in  a  broken  torrent.  Over 
its  barbaric  brightness,  beads  and  glass  caught  the 
sun,  and  the  nervous  fluttering  of  eagle  feathers 
that  fringed  the  upheld  lances  played  above  its 
shifting  pattern  of  brown  and  scarlet.  It  descended 
the  slope  in  a  broken  rush,  spreading  out  fanwise, 
scattered,  disorderly,  horse  and  foot  together.  On 
the  river  bank  it  paused,  the  web  of  color  thicken 
ing,  then  rolled  over  the  edge  and  plunged  in.  The 
current,  beaten  into  sudden  whiteness,  eddied  round 
the  legs  of  horses,  the  throats  of  swimming  dogs, 
and  pressed  up  to  the  edges  of  the  travaux  where 
frightened  children  sat  among  litters  of  puppies. 
Ponies  bestrode  by  naked  boys  struck  up  showers 
of  spray,  squaws  with  lifted  blankets  waded  stolidly 
in,  mounted  warriors,  feathers  quivering  in  their 
inky  hair,  indifferently  splashing  them.  Here  a 
dog,  caught  by  the  current,  was  seized  by  a  sinewy 
hand;  there  a  horse,  struggling  under  the  weight 
of  a  travaux  packed  with  puppies  and  old  women, 
was  grasped  by  a  lusty  brave  and  dragged  to  shore. 
The  water  round  them  frothing  into  silvery  tur 
moil,  the  air  above  rent  with  their  cries,  they 
climbed  the  bank  and  made  for  the  camping  ground 
near  the  fort. 

Among  the  first  came  a  young  squaw.  Her 
white  doeskin  dress  was  as  clean  as  snow,  barbar- 

203 


The  Emigrant  Trail 

ically  splendid  with  cut  fringes  and  work  of  bead 
and  porcupine  quills.  Her  mien  was  sedate,  and 
she  swayed  to  her  horse  lightly  and  flexibly  as  a 
boy,  holding  aloft  a  lance  edged  with  a  flutter  of 
feathers,  and  bearing  a  round  shield  of  painted 
skins.  Beside  her  rode  the  old  chief,  his  blanket 
falling  away  from  his  withered  body,  his  face  ex 
pressionless  and  graven  deep  with  wrinkles. 

"  That's  Red  Feather  and  his  favorite  squaw," 
said  the  voice  of  Courant  at  Susan's  elbow. 

She  made  no  answer,  staring  at  the  Indian  girl, 
who  was  handsome  and  young,  younger  than  she. 

"  And  look,"  came  the  voice  again,  "  there  are 
the  emigrants." 

A  long  column  of  wagons  had  crested  the  sum 
mit  and  was  rolling  down  the  slope.  They  were 
in  single  file,  hood  behind  hood,  the  drivers,  beard 
ed  as  cave  men,  walking  by  the  oxen.  The  line 
moved  steadily,  without  sound  or  hurry,  as  if 
directed  by  a  single  intelligence  possessed  of  a  sin 
gle  idea.  It  was  not  a  congeries  of  separated  par 
ticles,  but  a  connected  whole.  As  it  wound  down 
the  face  of  the  hill,  it  suggested  a  vast  Silurian 
monster,  each  wagon  top  a  vertebra,  crawling  for 
ward  with  definite  purpose. 

"  That's  the  way  they're  coming,"  said  the  voice 
of  the  strange  man.  "  Slow  but  steady,  an  endless 
line  of  them." 

"  Who  ?  "  said  Susan,  answering  him  for  the  first 
time. 

"  The  white  men.  They're  creeping  along  out  of 
204 


The  Mountains 

their  country  into  this,  pushing  the  frontier  for 
ward  every  year,  and  going  on  ahead  of  it  with 
their  tents  and  their  cattle  and  their  women. 
Watch  the  wray  that  train  comes  after  Red  Fea 
ther's  village.  That  was  all  scattered  and  broken, 
going  every  way  like  a  lot  of  glass  beads  rolling 
down  the  hill.  This  conies  slow,  but  it's  steady  and 
sure  as  fate." 

She  thought  for  a  moment,  watching  the  emi 
grants,  and  then  said : 

"  It  moves  like  soldiers." 

"  Conquerors.  That's  what  they  are.  They're 
going  to  roll  over  everything — crush  them  out." 

"Over  the  Indians?" 

"  That's  it.  Drive  'em  away  into  the  cracks  of 
the  mountains,  wipe  them  out  the  way  the  trappers 
are  wiping  out  the  beaver." 

"  Cruel!  "  she  said  hotly.     "  I  don't  believe  it." 

"  Cruel?  "  he  gave  her  a  look  of  half-contemptu 
ous  amusement.  "  Maybe  so,  but  why  should  you 
blame  them  for  that?  Aren't  you  cruel  when  you 
kill  an  antelope  or  a  deer  for  supper  ?  They're  not 
doing  you  any  harm,  but  you  just  happen  to  be 
hungry.  Well,  those  fellers  are  hungry — land 
hungry — and  they've  come  for  the  Indian's  land. 
The  whole  world's  cruel.  You  know  it,  but 
you  don't  like  to  think  so,  so  you  say  it  isn't. 
You're  just  lying  because  you're  afraid  of  the 
truth." 

She  looked  angrily  at  him  and  met  the  gray  eyes. 
In  the  center  of  each  iris  was  a  dot  of  pupil  so 

205 


The  Emigrant  Trail 

clearly  defined  and  hard  that  they  looked  to  Susan 
like  the  heads  of  black  pins.  "  That's  exactly  what 
he'd  say,"  she  thought;  "  he's  no  better  than  a  sav 
age."  What  she  said  was: 

"  I  don't  agree  with  you  at  all." 

"  I  don't  expect  you  to,"  he  answered,  and  mak 
ing  an  ironical  bow  turned  on  his  heel  and  swung 
off. 

The  next  morning,  in  the  pallor  of  the  dawn,  they 
started,  rolling  out  into  a  gray  country  with  the 
keen-edged  cold  of  early  day  in  the  air,  and  Lara- 
mie  Peak,  gold  tipped,  before  them.  As  the  sky 
brightened  and  the  prospect  began  to  take  on 
warmer  hues,  they  looked  ahead  toward  the  profiles 
of  the  mountains  and  thought  of  the  journey  to 
come.  At  this  hour  of  low  vitality  it  seemed  enor 
mous,  and  they  paced  forward  a  silent,  lifeless  cara 
van,  the  hoof  beats  sounding  hollow  on  the  beaten 
track. 

Then  from  behind  them  came  a  sound  of  singing, 
a  man's  voice  caroling  in  the  dawn.  Both  girls 
wheeled  and  saw  Zavier  Leroux  ambling  after 
them  on  his  rough-haired  pony,  the  pack  horse 
behind.  He  waved  his  hand  and  shouted  across  the 
silence : 

"  I  come  to  go  with  you  as  far  as  South  Pass," 
and  then  he  broke  out  again  into  his  singing.  It 
was  the  song  Courant  had  sung,  and  as  he  heard  it 
he  lifted  up  his  voice  at  the  head  of  the  train,  and 
the  two  strains  blending,  the  old  French  chanson 
swept  out  over  the  barren  land: 

206 


The  Mountains 

"  A  la  claire  fontaine! 
M'en  allant  promener 
J'ai  trouve  1'eau  si  belle 
Que  je  me  suis  baigne!  " 

Susan  waved  a  beckoning  hand  to  the  voyageur, 
then  turned  to  Lucy  and  said  joyously : 

"  What  fun  to  have  Zavier !  He'll  keep  us 
laughing  all  the  time.  Aren't  you  glad  he's  com 
ing?" 

Lucy  gave  an  unenthusiastic  "  Yes."  After 
the  first  glance  backward  she  had  bent  over  her 
horse  smoothing  its  mane  her  face  suddenly  dyed 
with  a  flood  of  red. 


207 


CHAPTER   II 

EVERYBODY  was  glad  Zavier  had  come.  He 
brought  a  spirit  of  good  cheer  into  the  party  which 
had  begun  to  feel  the  pressure  of  the  long  march 
behind  them,  and  the  still  heavier  burden  that  was 
to  come.  His  gayety  was  irrepressible,  his  high 
spirits  unflagging.  When  the  others  rode  silent  in 
the  lifeless  hours  of  the  afternoon  or  drooped  in  the 
midday  heats,  Zavier,  a  dust-clouded  outline  on  his 
shaggy  pony,  lifted  up  his  voice  in  song.  Then  the 
chanted  melody  of  French  verses  issued  from  the 
dust  cloud,  rising  above  the  rattling  of  the  beaver 
traps  and  the  creaking  of  the  slow  wheels. 

He  had  one  especial  favorite  that  he  was  wont 
to  sing  when  he  rode  between  the  two  girls.  It 
recounted  the  adventures  of  trois  cavalier es,  and 
had  so  many  verses  that  Zavier  assured  them  nei 
ther  he  nor  any  other  man  had  ever  arrived  at  the 
end  of  them.  Should  he  go  to  California  with  them 
and  sing  a  verse  each  day,  he  thought  there  would 
still  be  some  left  over  to  give  away  when  he  got 
there.  Susan  learned  the  first  two  stanzas,  and 
Lucy  picked  up  the  air  and  a  few  words.  When 
the  shadows  began  to  slant  and  the  crisp  breath 
of  the  mountains  came  cool  on  their  faces,  they 
sang,  first  Zavier  and  Susan,  then  Lucy  joining  in 


The  Mountains 

in  a  faint,  uncertain  treble,  and  finally  from  the 
front  of  the  train  the  strange  man,  not  turning  his 
head,  sitting  straight  and  square,  and  booming  out 
the  burden  in  his  deep  baritone: 

"  Dans  mon  chemin  j'ai  recontre* 
Trois  cavalieres  bien  montees, 
L'on,  ton  laridon  dane"e 
L'on,  ton  laridon  dai. 

"  Trois  cavalieres  bien  montees 
L'une  a  cheval,  Pautre  a  pied 
L'on,  ton,  laridon  danee 
L'on  ton  laridon  dai." 

Zavier  furnished  another  diversion  in  the  monot 
ony  of  the  days,  injected  into  the  weary  routine, 
a  coloring  drop  of  romance,  for,  as  he  himself 
would  have  said,  he  was  diablemcnt  epris  with 
Lucy.  This  was  regarded  as  one  of  the  best  of 
Zavier's  jokes.  He  himself  laughed  at  it,  and  his 
extravagant  compliments  and  gallantries  were  well 
within  the  pale  of  the  burlesque.  Lucy  laughed 
at  them,  too.  The  only  one  that  took  the  mat 
ter  seriously  was  Bella.  She  was  not  entirely 
pleased. 

'  Talk  about  it's  being  just  a  joke,"  she  said  to 
Susan  in  the  bedtime  hour  of  confidences.  "  You 
can  joke  too  much  about  some  things.  Zavier's  a 
man  just  the  same  as  the  others,  and  Lucy's  a  nice- 
looking  girl  when  she  gets  rested  up  and  the 
freckles  go  off.  But  he's  an  Indian  if  he  does  speak 

209 


The  Emigrant  Trail 

French,  and  make  good  money  with  his  beaver 
trapping." 

"  He's  not  all  Indian,"  Susan  said  soothingly. 
"  He's  half  white.  There  are  only  a  few  Indian 
things  about  him,  his  dark  skin  and  something  high 
and  flat  about  his  cheek  bones  and  the  way  he  turns 
in  his  toes  when  he  walks." 

"  Indian  enough,"  Bella  fumed.  "  And  nobody 
knows  anything  about  his  father.  We're  respect 
able  people  and  don't  want  a  man  with  no  name 
hanging  round.  I've  no  doubt  he  was  born  in  a 
lodge  or  under  a  pine  tree.  What  right's  that  kind 
of  man  to  come  ogling  after  a  decent  white  girl 
whose  father  and  mother  were  married  in  the  Pres 
byterian  Church  ?  " 

Susan  did  not  take  it  so  much  to  heart.  What 
was  the  good  when  Lucy  obviously  didn't  care? 
As  for  Zavier,  she  felt  sorry  for  him,  for  those 
keen  observing  faculties  of  hers  had  told  her  that 
the  voyageur's  raillery  hid  a  real  feeling.  Poor 
Zavier  was  in  love.  Susan  was  pensive  in  the  con 
templation  of  his  hopeless  passion.  He  was  to 
leave  the  train  near  South  Pass  and  go  back  into 
the  mountains,  and  there,  alone,  camp  on  the 
streams  that  drained  the  Powder  River  country. 
In  all  probability  he  would  never  see  one  of  them 
again.  His  trapping  did  not  take  him  West  to  the 
great  deserts,  and  he  hated  the  civilization  where 
man  became  a  luxurious  animal  of  many  needs. 
Like  the  buffalo  and  the  red  man  he  was  restricted 
to  the  wild  lands  that  sloped  away  on  either  side  of 

210 


The  Mountains 

the  continent's  mighty  spine.  His  case  was  sad, 
and  Susan  held  forth  on  the  subject  to  Lucy,  whom 
she  thought  callous  and  unkind. 

"  It's  terrible  to  think  you'll  never  see  him 
again,"  she  said,  looking  for  signs  of  compassion. 
"  Don't  you  feel  sorry?  " 

Lucy  looked  down.  She  had  been  complaining 
to  her  friend  of  Zavier's  follies  of  devotion. 

"  There  are  lots  of  other  men  in  the  world,"  she 
said  indifferently. 

Susan  fired  up.  If  not  yet  the  authorized  owner 
of  a  man,  she  felt  her  responsibilities  as  a  coming 
proprietor.  The  woman's  passion  for  interference 
in  matters  of  sentiment  was  developing  in  her. 

"  Lucy,  you're  the  most  hard-hearted  girl !  Poor 
Zavier,  who's  going  off  into  the  mountains  and 
may  be  killed  by  the  Indians.  Don't  you  feel  any 
pity  for  him?  And  he's  in  love  with  you — truly 
in  love.  I've  watched  him  and  I  know." 

She  could  not  refrain  from  letting  a  hint  of  supe 
rior  wisdom,  of  an  advantage  over  the  unengaged 
Lucy,  give  solemnity  to  her  tone. 

Lucy's  face  flushed. 

"  He's  half  an  Indian,"  she  said  with  an  edge  on 
her  voice.  "  Doesn't  everyone  in  the  train  keep 
saying  that  every  ten  minutes?  Do  you  want  me 
to  fall  in  love  with  a  man  like  that  ?  " 

"  Why  no,  of  course  not.  You  couldn't.  That's 
the  sad  part  of  it.  He  seems  as  much  like  other 
men  as  those  trappers  in  the  fort  who  were  all 
white.  Just  because  he  had  a  Crow  mother  it  seems 

211 


The  Emigrant  Trail 

unjust  that  he  should  be  so  sort  of  on  the  outside  of 
everything.  But  of  course  you  couldn't  marry  him. 
Nobody  ever  heard  of  a  girl  marrying  a  half- 
breed." 

Lucy  bent  over  the  piece  of  deer  meat  that  she 
was  cutting  apart.  They  were  preparing  supper 
at  the  flaring  end  of  a  hot  day,  when  the  wagons 
had  crawled  through  a  loose  alkaline  soil  and  over 
myriads  of  crickets  that  crushed  sickeningly  under 
the  wheels.  Both  girls  were  tired,  their  throats 
parched,  their  hair  as  dry  as  hemp,  and  Lucy  was 
irritable,  her  face  unsmiling,  her  movement  quick 
and  nervous. 

"  What's  it  matter  what  a  man's  parents  are  if 
he's  kind  to  you?  "  she  said,  cutting  viciously  into 
the  meat.  "  It's  a  lot  to  have  some  one  fill  the  ket 
tles  for  you  and  help  you  get  the  firewood,  and 
when  you're  tired  tell  you  to  go  back  in  the  wagon 
and  go  to  sleep.  Nobody  does  that  for  me  but 
Zavier." 

It  was  the  first  time  she  had  shown  any  appre 
ciation  of  her  swain's  attentions.  She  expressed 
the  normal,  feminine  point  of  view  that  her  friend 
had  been  looking  for,  and  as  soon  as  she  heard  it 
Susan  adroitly  vaulted  to  the  other  side: 

"  But,  Lucy,  you  cant  marry  him !  " 

"  Who  says  I'm  going  to  ?  "  snapped  Lucy.  "  Do 
I  have  to  marry  every  Indian  that  makes  eyes  at 
me?  All  the  men  in  the  fort  were  doing  it.  They 
hadn't  a  look  for  anyone  else." 

Susan  took  this  with  reservations.  A  good  many 
212 


The  Mountains 

of  the  men  in  the  fort  had  made  eyes  at  her.  It 
was  rather  grasping  of  Lucy  to  take  it  all  to  her 
self,  and  in  her  surprise  at  the  extent  of  her  friend's 
claims  she  was  silent. 

"  As  for  me,"  Lucy  went  on,  "  I'm  dead  sick  of 
this  journey.  I  wish  we  could  stop  or  go  back  or 
do  something.  But  we've  got  to  keep  on  and  on 
to  the  end  of  nowhere.  It  seems  as  if  we  were 
going  forever  in  these  tiresome  old  wagons  or  on 
horses  that  get  lame  every  other  day,  and  then  you 
have  to  walk.  I  don't  mind  living  in  a  tent.  I 
like  it.  But  I  hate  always  going  on,  never  having 
a  minute  to  rest,  getting  up  in  the  morning  when 
I'm  only  half  awake,  and  having  to  cook  at  night 
when  I'm  so  tired  I'd  just  like  to  lie  down  on  the 
ground  without  taking  my  clothes  off  and  go  to 
sleep  there.  I  wish  I'd  never  come.  I  wish  I'd 
married  the  man  in  Cooperstown  that  I  wouldn't 
have  wiped  my  feet  on  then." 

She  slapped  the  frying  pan  on  the  fire  and  threw 
the  meat  into  it.  Her  voice  and  lips  were  trem 
bling.  With  a  quick,  backward  bend  she  stooped 
to  pick  up  a  fork,  and  Susan  saw  her  face  puckered 
and  quivering  like  a  child's  about  to  cry. 

"  Oh,  Lucy,"  she  cried  in  a  burst  of  sympathy. 
"  I  didn't  know  you  felt  like  that,"  and  she  tried 
to  clasp  the  lithe  uncorseted  waist  that  flinched 
from  her  touch.  Lucy's  elbow,  thrown  suddenly 
out,  kept  her  at  a  distance,  and  she  fell  back  re 
pulsed,  but  with  consolations  still  ready  to  be  of 
fered. 

213 


The  Emigrant  Trail 

"  Let  me  alone,"  said  Lucy,  her  face  averted. 
"  I'm  that  tired  I  don't  know  what  I'm  saying.  Go 
and  get  the  children  for  supper,  and  don't  let  them 
stand  round  staring  at  me  or  they'll  be  asking 
questions." 

She  snatched  the  coffee  pot  and  shook  it  upside 
down,  driblets  of  coffee  running  out.  With  her 
other  hand  she  brushed  the  tears  off  her  cheeks. 

"  Don't  stand  there  as  if  you  never  saw  a  girl 
cry  before,"  she  said,  savagely.  "  I  don't  do  it 
often,  and  it  isn't  such  a  wonderful  sight.  Get  the 
children,  and  if  you  tell  anyone  that  I  feel  this  way 
I'll  murder  you." 

The  children  were  at  some  distance  lying  on  the 
ground.  Such  unpromising  materials  as  dust  and 
sage  brush  had  not  quenched  their  inventive  power 
or  hampered  their  imaginations.  They  played  with 
as  an  absorbed  an  industry  here  as  in  their  own 
garden  at  home.  They  had  scraped  the  earth  into 
mounded  shapes  marked  with  the  print  of  baby 
fingers  and  furrowed  with  paths.  One  led  to  a 
central  mound  crowned  with  a  wild  sunflower 
blossom.  Up  the  path  to  this  Bob  conducted  twigs 
of  sage,  murmuring  the  adventures  that  attended 
their  progress.  When  they  reached  the  sunflower 
house  he  laid  them  carefully  against  its  sides,  con 
tinuing  the  unseen  happenings  that  befell  them  on 
their  entrance.  The  little  girl  lay  beside  him,  her 
cheek  resting  on  an  outflung  arm,  her  eyes  fixed 
wistfully  on  the  personally  conducted  party.  Her 
creative  genius  had  not  risen  to  the  heights  of  his, 

214 


The  Mountains 

and  her  fat  little  hands  were  awkward  and  had 
pushed  the  sunflower  from  its  perch.  So  she  had 
been  excluded  from  active  participation,  and  now 
looked  on,  acquiescing  in  her  exclusion,  a  patient 
and  humble  spectator. 

"  Look,"  Bob  cried  as  he  saw  Susan  approaching. 
"  I've  builded  a  house  and  a  garden,  and  these  are 
the  people,"  holding  up  one  of  the  sage  twigs, 
"  they  walk  fru  the  garden  an'  then  go  into  the 
house  and  have  coffee  and  buf'lo  meat." 

Susan  admired  it  and  then  looked  at  the  baby, 
who  was  pensively  surveying  her  brother's  creation. 

"  And  did  the  baby  play,  too?  "  she  asked. 

"  Oh,  no,  she  couldn't.  She  doesn't  know  mif 
fing,  she's  too  small,"  with  the  scorn  of  one  year's 
superiority. 

The  baby  raised  her  solemn  eyes  to  the  young 
girl  and  made  no  attempt  to  vindicate  herself.  Her 
expression  was  that  of  subdued  humility,  of  one 
who  admits  her  short-comings.  She  rose  and 
thrust  a  soft  hand  into  Susan's,  and  maintained  her 
silence  as  they  walked  toward  the  camp.  The  only 
object  that  seemed  to  have  power  to  rouse  her  from 
her  dejected  reverie  were  the  broken  sage  stalks 
in  the  trail.  At  each  of  these  she  halted,  hanging 
from  Susan's  sustaining  grasp,  and  stubbed  her  toe 
accurately  and  carefully  against  the  protruding  root. 

They  would  have  been  silent  that  evening  if  it 
had  not  been  for  Zavier.  His  mood  was  less  merry 
than  usual,  but  a  stream  of  frontier  anecdote  and 
story  flowed  from  him,  that  held  them  listening 

215 


The  Emigrant  Trail 

with  charmed  attention.  His  foreign  speech  in 
terlarded  with  French  words  added  to  the  pictur- 
esqueness  of  his  narratives,  and  he  himself  sitting 
crosslegged  on  his  blanket,  his  hair  hanging  dense 
to  his  shoulders,  his  supple  body  leaning  forward 
in  the  tension  of  a  thrilling  climax,  was  a  fitting 
minstrel  for  these  lays  of  the  wild. 

His  final  story  was  that  of  Antoine  Godin,  one 
of  the  classics  of  mountain  history.  Godin  was  the 
son  of  an  Iroquois  hunter  who  had  been  brutally 
murdered  by  the  Blackfeet.  He  had  become  a  trap 
per  of  the  Sublette  brothers,  then  mighty  men  of 
the  fur  trade,  and  in  the  expedition  of  Milton  Sub 
lette  against  the  Blackfeet  in  1832  joined  the  troop. 
When  the  two  bands  met,  Godin  volunteered  to 
hold  a  conference  with  the  Blackfeet  chief.  He 
chose  as  his  companion  an  Indian  of  the  Flathead 
tribe,  once  a  powerful  nation,  but  almost  extermi 
nated  by  wars  with  the  Blackfeet.  From  the  massed 
ranks  of  his  warriors  the  chief  rode  out  for  the 
parley,  a  pipe  of  peace  in  his  hand.  As  Godin  and 
the  Flathead  started  to  meet  him,  the  former  asked 
the  Indian  if  his  piece  was  charged,  and  when  the 
Flathead  answered  in  the  affirmative  told  him  to 
cock  it  and  ride  alongside. 

Midway  between  the  two  bands  they  met.  Go- 
din  clasped  the  chief's  hand,  and  as  he  did  so  told 
the  Flathead  to  fire.  The  Indian  levelled  his  gun, 
fired,  and  the  Blackfeet  chief  rolled  off  his  horse. 
Godin  snatched  off  his  blanket  and  in  a  rain  of 
bullets  fled  to  the  Sublette  camp. 

216 


The  Mountains 

"  And  so,"  said  the  voyageur  with  a  note  of  ex 
ultation  in  his  voice,  "  Godin  got  revenge  on  those 
men  who  had  killed  his  father." 

For  a  moment  his  listeners  were  silent,  suffering 
from  a  sense  of  bewilderment,  not  so  much  at  the 
story,  as  at  Zavier's  evident  approval  of  Godin's  act. 

It  was  Susan  who  first  said  in  a  low  tone,  "  What 
an  awful  thing  to  do ! "  This  loosened  Bella's 
tongue,  who  lying  in  the  opening  of  her  tent  had 
been  listening  and  now  felt  emboldened  to  express 
her  opinion,  especially  as  Glen,  stretched  on  his  face 
nearby,  had  emitted  a  snort  of  indignation. 

"  Well,  of  all  the  wicked  things  I've  heard  since 
I  came  out  here  that's  the  worst." 

Zavier  shot  a  glance  at  them  in  which  for  one 
unguarded  moment,  race  antagonism  gleamed. 

"  Why  is  it  wicked?  "  he  said  gently. 

David  answered  heatedly,  the  words  bursting 
out: 

"•Why,  the  treachery  of  it,  the  meanness.  The 
chief  carried  the  pipe  of  peace.  That's  like  our 
flag  of  truce.  You  never  heard  of  any  civilized 
man  shooting  another  under  the  flag  of  truce." 

Zavier  looked  stolid.  It  was  impossible  to  tell 
whether  he  comprehended  their  point  of  view  and 
pretended  ignorance,  or  whether  he  was  so  re 
stricted  to  his  own  that  he  could  see  no  other. 

"The  Blackfeet  had  killed  his  father,"  he  an 
swered.  "  They  were  treacherous  too.  Should  he 
wait  to  be  murdered?  It  was  his  chance  and  he 
took  it." 

217 


The  Emigrant  Trail 

Sounds  of  dissent  broke  out  round  the  circle. 
All  the  eyes  were  trained  on  him,  some  with  a  wide, 
expectant  fixity,  others  bright  with  combative  fire. 
Even  Glen  sat  up,  scratching  his  head,  and  remark 
ing  sotto  voce  to  his  wife : 

"  Ain't  I  always  said  he  was  an  Indian?  " 

"  But  the  Blackfeet  chief  wasn't  the  man  who 
killed  his  father,"  said  the  doctor. 

"  No,  he  was  chief  of  the  tribe  who  did." 

"  But  why  kill  an  innocent  man  who  probably 
had  nothing  to  do  with  it  ?  " 

"  It  was  for  vengeance,"  said  Zavier  with  un 
moved  patience  and  careful  English.  "  Vengeance 
for  his  father's  death." 

Several  pairs  of  eyes  sought  the  ground  giving 
up  the  problem.  Others  continued  to  gaze  at  him 
either  with  wonder,  or  hopeful  of  extracting  from 
his  face  some  clew  to  his  involved  and  incompre 
hensible  moral  attitude.  They  suddenly  felt  as  if 
he  had  confessed  himself  of  an  alien  species,  a 
creature  as  remote  from  them  and  their  ideals  as 
a  dweller  in  the  moon. 

"  He  had  waited  long  for  vengeance,"  Zavier 
further  explained,  moving  his  glittering  glance 
about  the  circle,  "  and  if  he  could  not  find  the  right 
man,  he  must  take  such  man  as  he  could.  The  chief 
is  the  biggest  man,  and  he  comes  where  Godin  has 
him.  '  My  father  is  avenged  at  last,'  he  says,  and 
bang !  " — Zavier  levelled  an  imaginary  engine  of  de 
struction  at  the  shadows — "  it  is  done  and  Godin 
gets  the  blanket." 

218 


The  Mountains 

The  silence  that  greeted  this  was  one  of  hope 
lessness;  the  blanket  had  added  the  final  compli 
cation.  It  was  impossible  to  make  Zavier  see,  and 
this  new  development  in  what  had  seemed  a  boyish 
and  light-hearted  being,  full  to  the  brim  with  the 
milk  of  human  kindness,  was  a  thing  to  sink  before 
in  puzzled  speechlessness.  Courant  tried  to  ex 
plain: 

"  You  can't  see  it  Zavier's  way  because  it's  a 
different  way  from  yours.  It  comes  out  of  the  past 
when  there  weren't  any  laws,  or  you  had  to  make 
'em  yourself.  You've  come  from  where  the 
courthouse  and  the  police  take  care  of  you,  and 
if  a  feller  kills  your  father,  sees  to  it  that 
he's  caught  and  strung  up.  It's  not  your  busi 
ness  to  do  it,  and  so  you've  got  to  thinking  that 
the  man  that  takes  it  into  his  own  hands  is  a  des 
perate  kind  of  criminal.  Out  here  in  those  days 
you  wiped  out  such  scores  yourself  or  no  one  did. 
It  seems  to  you  that  Godin  did  a  pretty  low  down 
thing,  but  he  thought  he  was  doing  the  right  thing 
for  him.  He'd  had  a  wrong  done  him  and  he'd  got 
to  square  it.  And  it  didn't  matter  to  him  that  the 
chief  wasn't  the  man.  Kill  an  Indian  and  it's  the 
tribe's  business  to  settle  the  account.  The  Black- 
feet  killed  his  father  and  it  was  Godin's  business  to 
kill  a  Blackfeet  whenever  he  got  the  chance.  I 
guess  when  he  saw  the  chief  riding  out  to  meet  him 
what  he  felt  most  was,  that  it  was  the  best  chance 
he'd  ever  get." 

The  faces  turned  toward  Courant — a  white  man 
219 


The  Emigrant  Trail 

like  themselves!  So  deep  was  their  disapproving 
astonishment  that  nobody  could  say  anything.  For 
a  space  they  could  only  stare  at  him  as  though  he, 
too,  were  suddenly  dropping  veils  that  had  hidden 
unsuspected,  baleful  depths. 

Then  argument  broke  out  and  the  clamor  of 
voices  was  loud  on  the  night.  Courant  bore  the 
brunt  of  the  attack,  Zavier's  ideas  being  scanty, 
his  mode  of  procedure  a  persistent,  reiteration  of 
his  original  proposition.  Interruptions  were  fur 
nished  in  a  sudden,  cracked  laugh  from  Daddy 
John,  and  phrases  of  dissent  or  approval  from  Glen 
and  Bella  stretching  their  ears  from  the  front  of 
the  tent.  Only  Lucy  said  nothing,  her  head 
wrapped  in  a  shawl,  her  face  down-drooped  and 
pale. 

Late  that  night  Susan  was  waked  by  whispering 
sounds  which  wound  stealthily  through  her  .  sleep 
feeling  for  her  consciousness.  At  first  she  lay  with 
her  eyes  shut,  breathing  softly,  till  the  sounds  per 
colated  through  the  stupor  of  her  fatigue  and  she 
woke,  disentangling  them  from  dreams.  She  threw 
back  her  blankets  and  sat  alert  thinking  of  Indians. 

The  moon  was  full,  silver  tides  lapping  in  below 
the  tent's  rim.  She  stole  to  the  flap  listening,  then 
drew  it  softly  open.  Her  tent  had  been  pitched 
beneath  a  group  of  trees  which  made  a  splash  of 
shadow  broken  with  mottlings  of  moonlight.  In 
the  depths  of  this  shadow  she  discerned  two  figures, 
the  white  flecks  and  slivers  sliding  along  the  dark 
oblong  of  their  shapes  as  they  strayed  with  loiter 
ing  steps  or  stood  whispering.  The  straight  edge 

220 


The  Mountains 

of  their  outline,  the  unbroken  solidity  of  their  bulk, 
told  her  they  were  wrapped  in  the  same  blanket,  a 
custom  in  the  Indian  lover's  courtship.  Their 
backs  were  toward  her,  the  two  heads  rising  from 
the  blanket's  folds,  showing  as  a  rounded  pyramidal 
finish.  As  she  looked  they  paced  beyond  the 
shadow  into  the  full  unobscured  light,  and  she  saw 
that  the  higher  head  was  dark,  the  other  fair, 
crowned  with  a  circlet  of  shining  hair. 

Her  heart  gave  an  astounded  leap.  Her  first 
instinct  was  to  draw  back,  her  second  to  stand 
where  she  was,  seemly  traditions  overwhelmed  in 
amazement.  The  whispering  ceased,  the  heads 
inclined  to  each  other,  the  light  one  drooping 
backward,  the  dark  one  leaning  toward  it,  till 
they  rested  together  for  a  long,  still  moment. 
Then  they  separated,  the  woman  drawing  her 
self  from  the  blanket  and  with  a  whispered 
word  stealing  away,  a  furtive  figure  flitting 
through  light  and  shade  to  the  McMurdo  tents. 
The  man  turned  and  walked  to  the  fire,  and  Su 
san  saw  it  was  Zavier.  He  threw  on  a  brand  and 
in  its  leaping  ray  stood  motionless,  looking  at  the 
flame,  a  slight,  fixed  smile  on  his  lips. 

She  crept  back  to  her  bed  and  lay  there  with  her 
heart  throbbing  and  her  eyes  on  the  edges  of  moon 
light  that  slipped  in  over  the  trampled  sage  leaves. 
Zavier  was  on  sentry  duty  that  night,  and  she  could 
hear  the  padding  of  his  step  as  he  moved  back  and 
forth  through  the  sleeping  camp.  On  the  dark 
walls  of  the  tent  the  vision  she  had  seen  kept  re- 

221 


The  Emigrant  Trail 

peating  itself,  and  as  it  returned  upon  her  mental 
sight,  new  questions  surged  into  her  mind.  A  veil 
had  been  raised,  and  she  had  caught  a  glimpse  of 
something  in  life,  a  new  factor  in  the  world,  she  had 
never  known  of.  The  first  faint  comprehension  of 
it,  the  first  stir  of  sympathy  with  it,  crept  toward 
her  understanding  and  tried  to  force  an  entrance. 
She  pushed  it  out,  feeling  frightened,  feeling  as  if 
it  were  an  intruder,  that  once  admitted  would  grow 
dominant  and  masterful,  and  she  would  never  be 
her  own  again. 


222 


CHAPTER    III 

The  next  morning  Susan  could  not  help  stealing 
inquiring  looks  at  Lucy.  Surely  the  participant  in 
such  a  nocturnal  adventure  must  bear  some  signs  of 
it  upon  her  face.  Lucy  had  suddenly  become  a  dis 
turbing  and  incomprehensible  problem.  In  trying 
to  readjust  her  conception  of  the  practical  and  en 
ergetic  girl,  Susan  found  herself  confronted  with  the 
artifices  of  a  world-old,  feminine  duplicity  that  she 
had  never  before  encountered,  and  knew  no  more  of 
than  she  did  of  the  tumult  that  had  possession  of 
poor  Lucy's  tormented  soul.  Here  was  the  heroine 
of  a  midnight  rendezvous  going  about  her  work 
with  her  habitual  nervous  capability,  dressing  the 
children,  preparing  the  breakfast,  seeing  that  Bella 
was  comfortably  disposed  on  her  mattress  in  the 
wagon.  She  had  not  a  glance  for  Zavier.  Could 
a  girl  steal  out  to  meet  and  kiss  a  man  in  the  moon 
light  and  the  next  morning  look  at  him  with  a  lim 
pid,  undrooping  eye  as  devoid  of  consciousness  as 
the  eye  of  a  preoccupied  cat? 

The  standards  of  the  doctor's  daughter  were 
comparative  and  their  range  limited.  All  she  had 
to  measure  by  was  herself.  Her  imagination  in 
trying  to  compass  such  a  situation  with  Susan  Gil- 
lespie  as  the  heroine,  could  picture  nothing  as  her 

223 


The  Emigrant  Trail 

portion  but  complete  abasement  and,  of  course,  a 
confession  to  her  father.  And  how  dreadful  that 
would  have  been !  She  could  feel  humiliation  steal 
ing  on  her  at  the  thought  of  the  doctor's  frowning 
displeasure.  But  Lucy  had  evidently  told  no  one. 
Why  had  she  not?  Why  had  she  pretended  not  to 
like  Zavier?  Why?  Why?  Susan  found  her 
thoughts  trailing  off  into  a  perspective  of  ques 
tions  that  brought  up  against  a  wall  of  incompre 
hension  above  which  Lucy's  clear  eyes  looked  at 
her  with  baffling  secretiveness. 

It  was  a  warm  morning,  and  the  two  girls  sat  in 
the  doctor's  wagon.  Lucy  was  knitting  one  of  the 
everlasting  stockings.  In  the  heat  she  had  un 
fastened  the  neck  of  her  blouse  and  turned  the 
edges  in,  a  triangle  of  snowy  skin  visible  below  her 
sunburned  throat.  She  looked  thin,  her  arms  show 
ing  no  curve  from  wrist  to  elbow,  the  lines  of  her 
body  delicately  angular  under  the  skimpy  dress  of 
faded  lilac  cotton.  The  sun  blazing  through  the 
canvas  cast  a  tempered  yellow  light  over  her  that 
toned  harmoniously  with  the  brown  coating  of 
freckles  and  the  copper  burnish  of  her  hair.  Her 
hands,  vibrating  over  her  work  with  little  hovering 
movements  like  birds  about  to  light,  now  and  then 
flashing  out  a  needle  which  she  stabbed  into  her 
coiffure,  were  large-boned  and  dexterous,  the 
strong,  unresting  hands  of  the  frontierswoman. 

Susan  was  lazy,  leaning  back  on  the  up-piled 
sacks,  watching  the  quick,  competent  movements 
and  the  darts  of  light  that  leaped  along  the  needles. 

224. 


The  Mountains 

Before  they  had  entered  the  wagon  she  had  de 
cided  to  speak  to  Lucy  of  what  she  had  overseen. 
In  the  first  place  she  felt  guilty  and  wanted  to  con 
fess.  Besides  that  the  need  to  give  advice  was 
strong  upon  her,  and  the  natural  desire  to  inter 
fere  in  a  matter  of  the  heart  was  another  impelling 
impulse.  So  she  had  determined  to  speak  for  con 
science,  for  friendship,  for  duty,  and  it  is  not  be 
yond  the  bounds  of  possibility,  for  curiosity. 

But  it  was  a  hard  subject  to  approach,  and  she 
was  uncomfortable.  Diplomacy  had  not  been  one 
of  the  gifts  the  fairies  gave  her  when  they  gath 
ered  at  her  cradle.  Looking  at  the  quivering  nee 
dles  she  tried  to  think  of  a  good  beginning,  and 
like  most  direct  and  candid  people  concluded  there 
was  no  better  one  than  that  of  the  initial  fact,  be 
fore  the  complicating  intrusion  of  inference : 

"  I  woke  up  in  the  middle  of  the  night  last 
night." 

Lucy  knit  unmoved. 

"  The  moonlight  was  as  bright  as  day.  Out  be 
yond  the  shadow  where  my  tent  was  I  could  see  the 
weeds  and  little  bunches  of  grass." 

"  How  could  you  see  them  when  you  were  in 
your  tent  ?  "  This  without  stopping  her  work  or 
raising  her  head. 

Susan,  feeling  more  uncomfortable  than  ever, 
answered,  her  voice  instinctively  dropping,  "  I  got 
up  and  looked  out  of  my  tent." 

She  kept  her  eyes  on  the  busy  hands  and  saw 
that  the  speed  of  their  movements  slackened. 

225 


The  Emigrant  Trail 

"  Got  up  and  looked  out  ?  What  did  you  do  that 
for?" 

The  time  for  revelation  had  come.  Susan  was 
a  little  breathless. 

"  I  heard  people  whispering,"  she  said. 

The  hands  came  to  a  stop.  But  the  knitter  con 
tinued  to  hold  them  in  the  same  position,  a  sus 
pended,  waiting  expectancy  in  their  attitude. 

"  Whispering?  "  she  said.     "  Who  was  it?  " 

"  Oh,  Lucy,  you  know." 

There  was  a  pause.  Then  Lucy  dropped  her 
knitting  and,  raising  her  head,  looked  at  the  anxious 
face  opposite.  Her  eyes  were  quiet  and  steady,  but 
their  look  was  changed  from  its  usual  frankness  by 
a  new  defiance,  hard  and  wary. 

"  No,  I  don't  know.     How  should  I  ?  " 

"  Why,  why  " — Susan  now  was  not  only  breath 
less  but  pleading — "  it  was  you." 

"Who  was  me?" 

"  The  woman — Lucy  don't  look  at  me  like  that, 
as  if  you  didn't  understand.  I  saw  you,  you  and 
Zavier,  wrapped  in  the  blanket.  You  walked  out 
into  the  moonlight  and  I  saw." 

Lucy's  gaze  continued  unfaltering  and  growing 
harder.  Under  the  freckles  she  paled,  but  she  stood 
her  ground. 

"What  do  you  mean?  Saw  me  and  Zavier? 
Where?" 

"  Under  the  trees  first  and  then  you  went  out 
into  the  moonlight  with  the  blanket  wrapped  round 
your  shoulders." 

226 


The  Mountains 

"  You  didn't  see  me,"  the  hardness  was  now  in 
her  voice.  "  It  was  some  one  else." 

A  feeling  of  alarm  rose  in  the  other  girl.  It  was 
not  the  lie  alone,  it  was  the  force  behind  it,  the 
force  that  made  it  possible,  that  gave  the  teller  will 
to  hold  her  glance  steady  and  deny  the  truth.  A 
scaring  sense  of  desperate  powers  in  Lucy  that 
were  carrying  her  outside  the  familiar  and  es 
tablished,  seized  her  friend.  It  was  all  differ 
ent  from  her  expectations.  Her  personal  repug 
nance  and  fastidiousness  were  swept  aside  in  the 
menace  of  larger  things.  She  leaned  forward  and 
clasped  Lucy's  knee. 

"  Don't  say  that.  I  saw  you.  Lucy,  don't  say  I 
didn't.  Don't  bother  to  tell  me  a  lie.  What  did 
it  mean?  Why  did  you  meet  him?  What  are  you 
doing?" 

Lucy  jerked  her  knee  away.  Her  hands  were 
trembling.  She  took  up  the  knitting,  tried  to  direct 
the  needles,  but  they  shook  and  she  dropped  them. 
She  made  a  sharp  movement  with  her  head  in  an 
effort  to  avert  her  face,  but  the  light  was  merciless, 
there  was  no  shade  to  hide  in. 

"  Oh,  don't  bother  me,"  she  said  angrily.  "  It's 
not  your  affair." 

Susan's  dread  rose  higher.  In  a  flash  of  vision 
she  had  a  glimpse  into  the  storm-driven  depths.  It 
was  as  if  a  child  brought  up  in  a  garden  had  un 
expectedly  looked  into  a  darkling  mountain  abyss. 

"  What  are  you  going  to  do?  "  she  almost  whis 
pered.  "  You  mustn't.  You  must  stop.  I  thought 

227 


The  Emigrant  Trail 

you  didn't  care  about  him.  You  only  laughed  and 
everybody  thought  it  was  a  joke.  Don't  go  on 
that  way.  Something  dreadful  will  happen." 

Lucy  did  not  answer.  With  her  back  pressed 
against  the  roof  arch  and  her  hands  clinched  in  her 
lap — she  sat  rigid,  looking  down.  She  seemed 
gripped  in  a  pain  that  stiffened  her  body  and  made 
her  face  pinched  and  haggard.  Under  the  light 
cotton  covering  her  breast  rose  and  fell.  She  was 
an  embodiment  of  tortured  indecision. 

Susan  urged :  "  Let  me  tell  my  father  and  he'll 
send  Zavier  away." 

Lucy  raised  her  eyes  and  tried  to  laugh.  The 
unnatural  sound  fell  with  a  metallic  harshness  on 
the  silence.  Her  mouth  quivered,  and  putting  an 
unsteady  hand  against  it,  she  said  brokenly, 

"  Oh,  Missy,  don't  torment  me.  I  feel  bad 
enough  already." 

There  was  a  longer  pause.  Susan  broke  it  in  a 
low  voice: 

"  Then  you're  going  to  marry  him?  " 

"  No,"  loudly,  "  no.    What  a  question!  " 

She  made  a  grab  at  her  knitting  and  started 
feverishly  to  work,  the  needles  clicking,  stitches 
dropping,  the  stocking  leg  trembling  as  it  hung. 

"  Why,  he's  an  Indian,"  she  cried  suddenly  in  a 
high,  derisive  key. 

"  But  " — the  questioner  had  lost  her  moment  of 
vision  and  was  once  again  floundering  between  ig 
norance  and  intuition — "  Why  did  you  kiss  him 
then?" 

228 


The  Mountains 

"  I  didn't.     He  kissed  me." 

"  You  let  him.     Isn't  that  the  same  thing?  " 

"  No,  no.  You're  so  silly.  You  don't  know  any 
thing."  She  gave  a  hysterical  laugh  and  the  bonds 
of  her  pride  broke  in  a  smothered  cry :  "  I  couldn't 
help  it.  I  didn't  want  to.  I  didn't  mean  to.  I 
didn't  mean  to  go  out  and  meet  him  and  I  went. 
I — "  she  gathered  up  the  stocking  and,  needles  and 
all,  buried  her  face  in  it.  It  was  the  only  thing  she 
could  find  to  hide  behind.  "  I'm  so  miserable,"  she 
sobbed.  "  You  don't  know.  It's  such  a  terrible 
thing  first  feeling  one  way  and  then  the  other.  I'm 
so  mixed  up  I  don't  know  what  I  feel.  I  wish  I 
was  dead." 

There  was  a  sound  of  men's  voices  outside,  and 
the  wagon  came  to  a  jolting  halt.  Daddy  John, 
on  the  driver's  seat,  silhouetted  against  the  circle 
of  sky,  slipped  the  whip  into  its  ring  of  leather  and 
turned  toward  the  girls.  Lucy  threw  herself  back 
ward  and  lay  with  her  face  on  the  sacks,  stifling 
her  tears. 

"  What  are  you  two  girls  jawing  about  in 
there  ?  "  he  asked,  squinting  blindly  from  the  sun 
dazzle  into  the  clear,  amber  light  of  the  canvas 
cavern. 

"  We're  just  telling  stories  and  things,"  said 
Susan. 

The  old  man  peered  at  Lucy's  recumbent  figure. 

"Ain't  she  well?"  he  queried.  "Thought  I 
heard  crying." 

"  Her  head  aches,  it's  so  hot." 
229 


The  Emigrant  Trail 

"  Let  her  stay  there.  We'll  do  her  cooking  for 
her.  Just  stay  where  you  are,  Lucy,  and  don't 
worrit  about  your  work." 

But  the  voices  outside  demanded  her.  It  was  the 
noon  halt  and  Lucy  was  an  important  factor  in  the 
machinery  of  the  train.  Glen's  call  for  her  was 
mingled  with  the  fresh  treble  of  Bob's  and  Bella's 
at  a  farther  distance,  rose  in  a  plaintive,  bovine  low 
ing.  She  stretched  a  hand  sideways  and  gripped 
Susan's  skirt. 

"  I  can't  go,"  she  gasped  in  a  strangled  whisper. 
"  I  can't  seem  to  get  a  hold  on  myself.  Ask  Zavier 
to  build  the  fire  and  cook.  He'll  do  it,  and  Courant 
will  help  him.  And  tell  the  others  I'm  sick." 

Lucy's  headache  lasted  all  through  the  dinner 
hour,  and  when  the  train  started  she  still  lay  in  the 
back  of  the  doctor's  wagon.  For  once  she  seemed 
indifferent  to  the  comfort  of  her  relatives.  The 
clamor  that  rose  about  their  disorderly  fire  and  un 
savory  meal  came  to  her  ears  through  the  canvas 
walls,  and  she  remained  deaf  and  unconcerned. 
When  Susan  crept  in  beside  her  and  laid  a  cool 
cheek  on  hers,  and  asked  her  if  she  wanted  any 
thing,  she  said  no,  she  wanted  to  rest  that  was  all. 
Daddy  John  turned  his  head  in  profile  and  said : 

"  Let  her  alone,  Missy.  She's  all  tuckered  out. 
They've  put  too  much  work  on  her  sence  her  sister 
took  sick.  You  let  her  lie  there  and  I'll  keep  an 
eye  to  her." 

Then  he  turned  away  and  spat,  as  was  his  wont 
when  thoughtful.  He  had  seen  much  of  the  world, 

230 


The  Mountains 

and  in  his  way  was  a  wise  old  man,  but  he  did  not 
guess  the  secret  springs  of  Lucy's  trouble.  Women 
on  the  trail  should  be  taken  care  of  as  his  Missy 
was.  Glen  McMurdo  was  the  kind  of  man  who 
let  the  women  take  care  of  him,  and  between  him 
and  the  children  and  the  sick  woman  they'd  half 
killed  the  girl  with  work.  Daddy  John  had  his 
opinion  of  Glen,  but  like  most  of  his  opinions  he 
kept  it  to  himself. 

Susan  had  no  desire  for  talk  that  afternoon.  She 
wanted  to  be  alone  to  muse  on  things.  As  the  train 
took  the  road  for  the  second  stage,  she  drew  her 
horse  back  among  the  sage  and  let  the  file  of 
wagons  pass  her.  She  saw  hope  gleaming  in  Left's 
eye,  and  killed  it  with  a  stony  glance,  then  called 
to  her  father  that  she  was  going  to  ride  behind. 
David  was  hunting  in  the  hills  with  Courant,  Zavier 
driving  in  his  stead.  The  little  caravan  passed  her 
with  the  dust  hovering  dense  around  it  and  the 
slouching  forms  of  the  pack  horses  hanging  fringe- 
like  in  its  rear. 

They  were  nearing  the  end  of  their  passage  by 
the  river,  shrunk  to  a  clear,  wild  stream  which  they 
came  upon  and  lost  as  the  trail  bore  westward. 
Their  route  lay  through  an  interminable  sequence 
of  plains  held  together  by  channels  of  communi 
cation  that  filtered  through  the  gaps  in  hills.  The 
road  was  crossed  by  small  streams,  chuckling  at  the 
bottom  of  gullies,  the  sides  of  which  were  cracked 
open  like  pale,  parched  lips  gasping  for  air.  The 
limpid  transparency  of  the  prospect  was  blotted  by 

231 


The  Emigrant  Trail 

the  caravan's  moving  dust  cloud.  Beyond  this  the 
plain  stretched,  empty  as  the  sky,  a  brown  butte 
rising  here  and  there. 

Susan  heard  hoof  beats  behind  her  and  turned. 
Courant  was  riding  toward  her,  his  rifle  across  his 
saddle.  She  made  a  motion  of  recognition  with 
her  hand  and  turned  away  thinking  how  well  he 
matched  the  surroundings,  his  buckskins  melting 
into  the  fawn-colored  shading  of  the  earth,  his  red 
hair  and  bronzed  face  toning  with  the  umber  buttes 
and  rustlike  stains  across  the  distance.  He  was  of 
a  piece  with  it,  even  in  its  suggestion  of  an  un 
feeling,  confidant  hardness. 

He  joined  her  and  they  paced  forward.  It  was 
the  first  time  he  had  ever  sought  any  conversation 
with  her  and  she  was  conscious  and  secretly  shy. 
Heretofore  it  had  been  his  wont  to  speak  little  to 
her,  to  sweep  an  indifferent  eye  over  her  which 
seemed  to  include  her  in  the  unimportant  baggage 
that  went  to  the  making  of  the  train.  Now,  though 
his  manner  was  brusque,  he  spoke  simply  and  not 
discourteously  of  the  hunt  in  the  hills.  He  had  got 
nothing,  but  David  had  killed  a  black-tailed  deer, 
and  possessed  by  the  passion  of  the  chase,  was  fol 
lowing  the  tracks  of  a  second.  The  girl  flushed 
with  pleasure. 

"  David's  a  very  good  shot,"  she  said  compla 
cently,  not  at  all  sure  of  her  statement,  for  David 
did  not  excel  in  the  role  of  Nimrod.  "  He  kept  us 
supplied  with  buffalo  meat  all  the  way  up  the 
Platte." 

232 


The  Mountains 

This  was  a  falsehood.  Daddy  John  and  Leff  had 
been  the  hunters  of  the  party.  But  Susan  did  not 
care.  Courant  had  never  said  a  word  in  her  hear 
ing  derogatory  to  David,  but  she  had  her  suspi 
cions  that  the  romantic  nature  of  her  betrothed  was 
not  of  the  stuff  the  mountain  man  respected. 

"  First  rate,"  he  said  heartily.  "  I  didn't  know 
it.  I  thought  he  generally  rode  with  you  or  drove 
the  wagon." 

To  an  outsider  the  tone  would  have  seemed  all 
that  was  frank  and  open.  But  Susan  read  irony 
into  it.  She  sat  her  horse  a  little  squarer  and  al 
lowed  the  muse  to  still  further  possess  her: 

"  David  can  shoot  anything,  an  antelope  even. 
He  constantly  brought  them  in  when  we  were  on 
the  Platte.  It  was  quite  easy  for  him.  Daddy 
John,  who's  been  in  all  sorts  of  wild  places,  says 
he's  never  seen  a  better  shot." 

A  slight  uneasiness  disturbed  the  proud  flow  of 
her  imagination  at  the  thought  that  Daddy  John, 
questioned  on  this  point,  might  show  a  tendency  to 
contradict  her  testimony.  But  it  didn't  matter. 
The  joy  of  proving  David's  superiority  compen 
sated.  And  she  was  setting  Courant  in  his  place 
which  had  a  separate  and  even  rarer  charm. 

His  answer  showed  no  consciousness  of  the  hum 
bling  process: 

"You  think  a  lot  of  David,  don't  you?" 

Susan  felt  her  color  rising.  This  time  she  not 
only  sat  squarer  in  her  saddle,  but  raised  her  shoul 
ders  and  chin  a  trifle. 

233 


The  Emigrant  Trail 

"  Yes.     I  am  engaged  to  be  married  to  him." 

"When  will  you  be  married?"  said  the  un- 
crushable  man. 

She  inclined  her  head  from  its  haughty  pose  just 
so  far  that  she  could  command  his  face  from  an 
austere  eye.  Words  were  ready  to  go  with  the 
quelling  glance,  but  they  died  unspoken.  The  man 
was  regarding  her  with  grave,  respectful  attention. 
It  is  difficult  to  suddenly  smite  a  proud  crest  when 
the  owner  of  the  crest  shows  no  consciousness  of  its 
elevation. 

"  When  we  get  to  California,"  she  said  shortly. 

"  Not  till  then  ?  Oh,  I  supposed  you  were  going 
to  marry  him  at  Bridger  or  along  the  road  if  we 
happened  to  meet  a  missionary." 

The  suggestion  amazed,  almost  appalled  her.  It 
pierced  through  her  foolish  little  play  of  pride  like 
a  stab,  jabbing  down  to  her  secret,  sentient  core. 
Her  anger  grew  stronger,  but  she  told  herself 
she  was  talking  to  one  of  an  inferior,  untutored 
order,  and  it  was  her  part  to  hold  herself  in 
hand. 

"  We  will  be  married  when  we  get  to  California," 
she  said,  seeing  to  it  that  her  profile  was  calm  and 
carried  high.  "Sometime  after  we  get  there  and 
have  a  home  and  are  settled." 

"  That's  a  long  time  off." 

"  I  suppose  so — a  year  or  two." 

"  A  year  or  two !  "  he  laughed  with  a  careless 
jovial  note.  "  Oh,  you  belong  to  the  old  towns 
back  there,"  with  a  jerk  of  his  head  toward  the 

234 


The  Mountains 

rear.     "  In  the  wilderness  we  don't  have  such  long 
courtships." 

"We?    Who  are  we?" 

"  The  mountain  men,  the  trappers,  the  voya- 
geurs." 

"  Yes,"  she  said,  her  tone  flashing  into  sudden 
scorn,  "  they  marry  squaws." 

At  this  the  man  threw  back  his  head  and  burst 
into  a  laugh,  so  deep,  so  rich,  so  exuberantly  joy 
ous,  that  it  fell  upon  the  plain's  grim  silence  with 
the  incongruous  contrast  of  sunshine  on  the  dust 
of  a  dungeon.  She  sat  upright  with  her  anger  boil 
ing  toward  expression.  Before  she  realized  it  he 
had  leaned  forward  and  laid  his  hand  on  the  pom 
mel  of  her  saddle,  his  face  still  red  and  wrinkled 
with  laughter. 

"  That's  all  right,  little  lady,  but  you  don't  know 
quite  all  about  us." 

"  I  know  enough,"  she  answered. 

"  Before  you  get  to  California  you'll  know  more. 
There's  a  mountain  man  and  a  voyageur  now  in 
the  train.  Do  you  think  Zavier  and  I  have  squaw 
wives?  " 

With  the  knowledge  that  Zavier  was  just  then 
so  far  from  contemplating  union  with  a  squaw,  she 
could  not  say  the  contemptuous  "  yes  "  that  was 
on  her  tongue.  As  for  the  strange  man — she  shot 
a  glance  at  him  and  met  the  gray  eyes  still  twink 
ling  with  amusement.  "  Savage !  "  she  thought, 
"  I've  no  doubt  he  has  " — and  she  secretly  felt  a 
great  desire  to  know.  What  she  said  was, 

235 


The  Emigrant  Trail 

"  I've  never  thought  of  it,  and  I  haven't  the  least 
curiosity  about  it." 

They  rode  on  in  silence,  then  he  said, 

"  What's  made  you  mad?" 

"  Mad?     I'm  not  mad." 

"Not  at  all?" 

"No.    Why  should  I  be?" 

"  That's  what  I  want  to  know.  You  don't  like 
me,  little  lady,  is  that  it?  " 

"  I  neither  like  nor  dislike  you.  I  don't  think  of 
you." 

She  immediately  regretted  the  words.  She  was 
so  completely  a  woman,  so  dowered  with  the  in 
stinct  of  attraction,  that  she  realized  they  were  not 
the  words  of  indifference. 

"  My  thoughts  are  full  of  other  people,"  she  said 
hastily,  trying  to  amend  the  mistake,  and  that  was 
spoiled  by  a  rush  of  color  that  suddenly  dyed  her 
face. 

She  looked  over  the  horse's  head,  her  anger  now 
turned  upon  herself.  The  man  made  no  answer, 
but  she  knew  that  he  was  watching  her.  They 
paced  on  for  a  silent  moment  then  he  said : 

"  Why  are  you  blushing?  " 

"  I  am  not,"  she  cried,  feeling  the  color  deep 
ening. 

"  You've  told  two  lies,"  he  answered.  "  You 
said  you  weren't  angry,  and  you're  mad  all  through, 
and  now  you  say  you're  not  blushing,  and  your 
face  is  as  pink  as  one  of  those  little  flat  roses  that 
grow  on  the  prairie.  It's  all  right  to  get  mad  and 

236 


The  Mountains 

blush,  but  I'd  like  to  know  why  you  do  it.  I  made 
you  mad  someway  or  other,  I  don't  know  how. 
Have  /  made  you  blush,  too?"  he  leaned  nearer 
trying  to  look  at  her.  "  How'd  I  do  that?" 

She  had  a  sidelong  glimpse  of  his  face,  quizzical, 
astonished,  full  of  piqued  interest.  She  struggled 
with  the  mortification  of  a  petted  child,  suddenly 
confronted  by  a  stranger  who  finds  its  caprices  only 
ridiculous  and  displeasing.  Under  the  new  sting  of 
humiliation  she  writhed,  burning  to  retaliate  and 
make  him  see  the  height  of  her  pedestal. 

"  Yes,  I  have  told  two  lies,"  she  said.  "  I  was 
angry  and  I  am  blushing,  and  it's  because  I'm  in  a 
rage  with  you." 

The  last  touch  was  given  when  she  saw  that  his 
surprise  contained  the  bitter  and  disconcerting  ele 
ment  of  amusement. 

"  Isn't  that  just  what  I  said,  and  you  denied  it?  " 
he  exclaimed.  "  Now  why  are  you  in  a  rage  with 
me?" 

"  Because — because — well,  if  you're  too  stupid 
to  know  why,  or  are  just  pretending,  I  won't  ex 
plain.  I  don't  intend  to  ride  with  you  any  more. 
Please  don't  try  and  keep  up  with  me." 

She  gave  her  reins  a  shake  and  her  horse  started 
on  a  brisk  canter.  As  she  sped  away  she  listened 
for  his  following  hoof  beats,  for  she  made  no  doubt 
he  would  pursue  her,  explain  his  conduct,  and  ask 
her  pardon.  The  request  not  to  keep  up  with  her 
he  would,  of  course,  set  aside.  David  would  have 
obeyed  it,  but  this  man  of  the  mountains,  at  once 

237 


The  Emigrant  Trail 

domineering  and  stupid,  would  take  no  command 
from  any  woman.  She  kept  her  ear  trained  for  the 
rhythmic  beat  in  the  distance  and  decided  when  she 
heard  it  she  would  increase  her  speed  and  not  let 
him  catch  her  till  she  was  up  with  the  train.  Then 
she  would  coldly  listen  to  his  words  of  apology 
and  have  the  satisfaction  of  seeing  him  look  small, 
and  probably  not  know  what  to  say. 

Only  it  didn't  happen  that  way.  He  made  no 
attempt  to  follow.  As  she  galloped  across  the 
plain  he  drew  his  horse  to  a  walk,  his  face  dark  and 
frowning.  Her  scorn  and  blush  had  left  his  blood 
hot.  Her  last  words  had  fired  his  anger.  He 
had  known  her  antagonism,  seen  it  in  her  face 
on  the  night  when  Bella  was  sick,  felt  its  sting 
when  she  turned  from  him  to  laugh  with  the  others. 
And  it  had  stirred  him  to  a  secret  irritation.  For  he 
told  himself  she  was  only  a  baby,  but  a  pretty  baby, 
on  whose  brown  and  rosy  face  and  merry  slits  of 
eyes  a  man  might  like  to  look.  Now  he  gazed  after 
her  swearing  softly  through  his  beard  and  holding 
his  horse  to  its  slowest  step.  As  her  figure  receded 
he  kept  his  eyes  upon  it.  They  were  long-sighted 
eyes,  used  to  great  distances,  and  they  watched,  in 
tent  and  steady,  to  see  if  she  would  turn  her  head. 

"  Damn  her,"  he  said,  when  the  dust  of  the  train 
absorbed  her.  "  Does  she  think  she's  the  only 
woman  in  the  world  ?  " 

After  supper  that  evening  Susan  called  David 
over  to  sit  on  the  edge  of  her  blanket.  This  was 
a  rare  favor.  He  came  hurrying,  all  alight  with 

238 


The  Mountains 

smiles,  cast  himself  down  beside  her  and  twined  his 
fingers  in  her  warm  grasp.  She  answered  his  hun 
gry  glance  with  a  sidelong  look,  glowingly  tender, 
and  David  drew  the  hand  against  his  cheek.  No 
body  was  near  except  Daddy  John  and  Courant, 
smoking  pipes  on  the  other  side  of  the  fire. 

"  Do  you  love  me  ?  "  he  whispered,  that  lover's 
text  for  every  sermon  which  the  unloving  find  so 
irksome  to  answer,  almost  to  bear. 

But  now  she  smiled  and  whispered, 

"  Of  course,  silly  David." 

"  Ah,  Susan,  you're  awakening,"  he  breathed  in 
a  shaken  undertone. 

She  again  let  the  soft  look  touch  his  face,  sweet 
as  a  caress.  From  the  other  side  of  the  fire  Courant 
saw  it,  and  through  the  film  of  pipe  smoke,  watched. 
David  thought  no  one  was  looking,  leaned  nearer, 
and  kissed  her  cheek.  She  gave  a  furtive  glance 
at  the  man  opposite,  saw  the  watching  eyes,  and 
with  a  quick  breath  like  a  runner,  turned  her  face 
to  her  lover  and  let  him  kiss  her  lips. 

She  looked  back  at  the  fire,  quiet,  unflurried,  then 
slowly  raised  her  lids.  Courant  had  moved  his  pipe 
and  the  obscuring  film  of  smoke  was  gone.  Across 
the  red  patch  of  embers  his  eyes  gazed  steadily  at 
her  with  the  familiar  gleam  of  derision.  Her  ten 
derness  died  as  a  flame  under  a  souse  of  water,  and 
an  upwelling  of  feeling  that  was  almost  hatred,  rose 
in  her  against  the  strange  man. 


239 


CHAPTER    IV 

THE  last  fording  of  the  river  had  been  made, 
and  from  the  summit  of  the  Red  Buttes  they  looked 
down  on  the  long  level,  specked  with  sage  and 
flecked  with  alkaline  incrustings,  that  lay  between 
them  and  the  Sweetwater.  Across  the  horizon  the 
Wind  River  mountains  stretched  a  chain  of  majes 
tic,  snowy  shapes.  Desolation  ringed  them  round, 
the  swimming  distances  fusing  with  the  pallor 
of  ever-receding  horizons,  the  white  road  losing 
itself  in  the  blotting  of  sage,  red  elevations  ris 
ing  lonely  in  extending  circles  of  stillness.  The 
air  was  so  clear  that  a  tiny  noise  broke  it,  crys 
tal-sharp  like  the  ring  of  a  smitten  glass.  And 
the  sense  of  isolation  was  intensified  as  there  was 
no  sound  from  anywhere,  only  a  brooding,  primor 
dial  silence  that  seemed  to  have  remained  unbroken 
since  the  first  floods  drained  away. 

Below  in  the  plain  the  white  dots  of  an  encamp 
ment  showed  like  a  growth  of  mushrooms.  Near 
this,  as  they  crawled  down  upon  it,  the  enormous 
form  of  Independence  Rock  detached  itself  from 
the  faded  browns  and  grays  to  develop  into  a  sleep 
ing  leviathan,  lost  from  its  herd  and  fallen  ex 
hausted  in  a  sterile  land. 

Courant  was  curious  about  the  encampment,  and 
240 


The  Mountains 

after  the  night  halt  rode  forward  to  inspect  it. 
He  returned  in  the  small  hours  reporting  it  a 
train  of  Mormons  stopped  for  sickness.  A  boy 
of  fifteen  had  broken  his  leg  ten  days  before  and 
was  now  in  a  desperate  condition.  The  train  had 
kept  camp  hoping  for  his  recovery,  or  for  the  advent 
of  help  in  one  of  the  caravans  that  overhauled  them. 
Courant  thought  the  boy  beyond  hope,  but  in  the 
gray  of  the  dawn  the  doctor  mounted,  and  with 
Susan,  David,  and  Courant,  rode  off  with  his  case 
of  instruments  strapped  to  his  saddle. 

The  sun  was  well  up  when  they  reached  the  Mor 
mon  camp.  Scattered  about  a  spring  mouth  in  the 
litter  of  a  three  days'  halt,  its  flocks  and  herds 
spread  wide  around  it,  it  was  hushed  in  a  sullen  de 
jection.  The  boy  was  a  likely  lad  for  the  new  Zion, 
and  his  mother,  one  of  the  wives  of  an  elder,  had 
forgotten  her  stern  training,  and  fallen  to  a  com 
mon  despair.  Long-haired  men  lolled  in  tent  doors 
cleaning  their  rifles,  and  women  moved  between  the 
wagons  and  the  fires,  or  sat  in  rims  of  shade  sewing 
and  talking  low.  Children  were  everywhere,  their 
spirits  undimmed  by  disaster,  their  voices  calling 
from  the  sage,  little,  light,  half-naked  figures  cir 
cling  and  bending  in  games  that  babies  played  when 
men  lived  in  cliffs  and  caves.  At  sight  of  the 
mounted  figures  they  fled,  wild  as  rabbits,  scurry 
ing  behind  tent  flaps  and  women's  skirts,  to  peep 
out  in  bright-eyed  curiosity  at  the  strangers. 

The  mother  met  them  and  almost  dragged  the 
doctor  from  his  horse.  She  was  a  toil-worn  woman 

241 


The  Emigrant  Trail 

of  middle  age,  a  Mater  Dolorosa  now  in  her  hour 
of  anguish.  She  led  them  to  where  the  boy  lay  in 
a  clearing  in  the  sage.  The  brush  was  so  high  that 
a  blanket  had  been  fastened  to  the  tops  of  the  tall 
est  blushes,  and  under  its  roof  he  was  stretched, 
gray-faced  and  with  sharpened  nose.  The  broken 
leg  had  been  bound  between  rough  splints  of  board, 
and  he  had  traveled  a  week  in  the  wagons  in  un 
complaining  agony.  Now,  spent  and  silent,  he 
awaited  death,  looking  at  the  newcomers  with  the 
slow,  indifferent  glance  of  those  whose  ties  with 
life  are  loosening.  But  the  mother,  in  the  ruthless 
unbearableness  of  her  pain,  wanted  something  done, 
anything.  An  Irishman  in  the  company,  who  had 
served  six  months  as  a  helper  in  a  New  York 
hospital,  had  told  her  he  could  amputate  the  leg, 
as  he  had  seen  the  operation  performed.  Now 
she  clamored  for  a  doctor — a  real  doctor — to  do 
it. 

He  tried  to  persuade  her  of  its  uselessness,  cov 
ering  the  leg  in  which  gangrene  was  far  advanced, 
and  telling  her  death  was  at  hand.  But  her  despair 
insisted  on  action,  her  own  suffering  made  her  re 
morseless.  The  clamor  of  their  arguing  voices  sur 
rounded  the  moribund  figure  lying  motionless  with 
listless  eyes  as  though  already  half  initiated  into 
new  and  profound  mysteries.  Once,  his  mother's 
voice  rising  strident,  he  asked  her  to  let  him  rest  in 
peace,  he  had  suffered  enough. 

Unable  to  endure  the  scene  Susan  left  them  and 
joined  a  woman  whom  she  found  sewing  in  the 

242 


The  Mountains 

shade  of  a  wagon.  The  woman  seemed  unmoved, 
chatting  as  she  stitched  on  the  happenings  of  the 
journey  and  the  accident  that  had  caused  the  delay. 
Here  presently  David  joined  them,  his  face  pallid, 
his  lips  loose  and  quivering.  Nothing  could  be 
done  with  the  mother.  She  had  insisted  on  the 
operation,  and  the  Irishman  had  undertaken  it. 
The  doctor  and  Courant  would  stay  by  them ;  Cou- 
rant  was  to  hold  the  leg.  He,  David,  couldn't  stand 
it.  It  was  like  an  execution — barbarous — with  a 
hunting  knife  and  a  saw. 

In  a  half  hour  Courant  came  walking  round  the 
back  of  the  wagon  and  threw  himself  on  the  ground 
beside  them.  The  leg  had  been  amputated  and  the 
boy  was  dying.  Intense  silence  fell  on  the  camp, 
only  the  laughter  and  voices  of  the  children  rising 
clear  on  the  thin  air.  Then  a  wail  arose,  a  pene 
trating,  fearful  cry,  Rachel  mourning  for  her  child. 
Courant  raised  his  head  and  said  with  an  unemo 
tional  air  of  relief,  "  he's  dead."  The  Mormon 
woman  dropped  her  sewing,  gave  a  low  exclama 
tion,  and  sat  listening  with  bitten  lip.  Susan  leaned 
against  the  wagon  wheel  full  of  horror  and  feeling 
sick,  her  eyes  on  David,  who,  drawing  up  his  knees, 
pressed  his  forehead  on  them.  He  rested  thus,  his 
face  hidden,  while  the  keening  of  the  mother,  the 
cries  of  an  animal  in  pain,  fell  through  the  hot 
brightness  of  the  morning  like  the  dropping  of 
agonized  tears  down  blooming  cheeks. 

When  they  ceased  and  the  quiet  had  resettled,  the 
Mormon  woman  rose  and  put  away  her  sewing. 

243 


The  Emigrant  Trail 

"  I  don't  seem  to  have  no  more  ambition  to 
work,"  she  said  and  walked  away. 

"  She's  another  of  his  wives,"  said  Courant. 

"  She  and  the  woman  whose  son  is  dead,  wives 
of  the  same  man  ?  " 

He  nodded. 

"  And  there's  a  younger  one,  about  sixteen.  She 
was  up  there  helping  with  water  and  rags — a 
strong,  nervy  girl.  She  had  whisky  all  ready  in  a 
tin  cup. to  give  to  the  mother.  When  she  saw  it  was 
all  up  with  him  she  went  round  collecting  stones  to 
cover  the  grave  with  and  keep  the  wolves  off." 

"Before  he  was  dead?" 

:t  Yes.  They've  got  to  move  on  at  once.  They 
can't  lose  any  more  time.  When  we  were  arguing 
with  that  half-crazy  woman,  I  could  see  the  girl 
picking  up  the  stones  and  wiping  off  her  tears  with 
her  apron." 

"  What  dreadful  people,"  she  breathed. 

"  Dreadful  ?  What's  dreadful  in  having  some 
sense?  Too  bad  about  the  boy.  He  set  his  teeth 
and  didn't  make  a  sound  when  that  fool  of  an  Irish 
man  was  sawing  at  him  as  if  he  was  a  log.  I 
never  saw  such  grit.  If  they've  got  many  like  him 
they'll  be  a  great  people  some  day." 

David  gave  a  gasping  moan,  his  arms  relaxed, 
and  he  fell  limply  backward  on  the  ground.  They 
sprang  toward  him  and  Susan  seeing  his  peaked 
white  face,  the  eyes  half  open,  thought  he  was  dead, 
and  dropped  beside  him,  a  crouched  and  staring 
shape  of  terror. 

244 


The  Mountains 

"What  is  it?  What's  the  matter?"  she  cried, 
raising  wild  eyes  to  Courant. 

"  Nothing  at  all,"  said  that  unmoved  person, 
squatting  down  on  his  heels  and  thrusting  his  hand 
inside  David's  shirt.  "  Only  a  faint.  Why,  where's 
your  nerve?  You're  nearly  as  white  as  he  is." 

His  eyes  were  full  of  curiosity  as  he  looked 
across  the  outstretched  figure  at  her  frightened 
face. 

"  I — I — thought  for  a  moment  he  was  dead,"  she 
faltered. 

"  And  so  you  were  going  to  follow  his  example 
and  die  on  his  body  ?  "  He  got  up.  "  Stay  here  and 
I'll  go  and  get  some  water."  As  he  turned  away 
he  paused  and,  looking  back,  said,  "  Why  didn't 
you  do  the  fainting?  That's  more  your  business 
than  his,"  gave  a  sardonic  grin  and  walked  off. 

Susan  raised  the  unconscious  head  and  held  it  to 
her  bosom.  Alone,  with  no  eye  looking,  she  pressed 
her  lips  on  his  forehead.  Courant's  callousness 
roused  a  fierce,  perverse  tenderness  in  her.  He 
might  sneer  at  David's  lack  of  force,  but  she  under 
stood.  She  crooned  over  him,  moved  his  hair  back 
with  caressing  fingers,  pressing  him  against  her 
self  as  if  the  strength  of  her  hold  would  assure  her 
of  the  love  she  did  not  feel  and  wanted  to  believe 
in.  Her  arms  were  close  round  him,  his  head  on 
her  shoulder  when  Courant  came  back  with  a  dip 
per  of  water. 

"  Get  away,"  he  said,  standing  over  them.  "  I 
don't  want  to  wet  you." 

245 


The  Emigrant  Trail 

But  she  curled  round  her  lover,  her  body  like  a 
protecting  shield  between  him  and  danger. 

"  Leave  go  of  him,"  said  Courant  impatiently. 
"  Do  you  think  I'm  going  to  hurt  him  with  a  cup 
full  of  water?" 

"  Let  me  alone,"  she  answered  sullenly.  "  He'll 
be  all  right  in  a  minute." 

'  You  can  be  any  kind  of  a  fool  you  like,  but 
you  can't  make  me  one.  Come,  move."  He  set  the 
dipper  on  the  ground. 

He  leaned  gently  over  her  and  grasped  her 
wrists.  The  power  of  his  grip  amazed  her ;  she  was 
like  a  mouse  in  the  paws  of  a  lion.  Her  puny 
strength  matched  against  his  was  conquered  in  a 
moment  of  futile  resistance. 

"  Don't  be  a  fool,"  he  said  softly  in  her  ear. 
"  Don't  act  like  a  silly  baby,"  and  the  iron  hands 
unclasped  her  arms  and  drew  her  back  till  David's 
head  slid  from  her  knees  to  the  ground. 

"  There !  We're  all  right  now."  He  let  her  go, 
snatched  up  the  dipper  and  sent  a  splash  of  water 
into  David's  face. 

"  Poor  David,"  he  said.  "  This'll  spoil  his  good 
looks." 

"  Stop,"  she  almost  screamed.  "  I'd  rather  have 
him  lie  in  a  faint  for  an  hour  than  have  you  speak 
so  about  him." 

Without  noticing  her,  he  threw  another  jet  of 
water  and  David  stirred,  drew  a  deep  breath 
and  opened  his  eyes.  They  touched  the  sky,  the 
wagon,  the  nearby  sage,  and  then  Susan's  face. 

246 


The  Mountains 

There    they    rested,    recognition    slowly    suffusing 
them. 

"  What  happened?  "  he  said  in  a  husky  voice. 

"  Fainted,  that  was  all,"  said  Courant. 

David  closed  his  eyes. 

"  Oh,  yes,  I  remember  now." 

Susan  bent  over  him. 

"  You  frightened  me  so!  " 

"  I'm  sorry,  Missy,  but  it  made  me  sick — the  leg 
and  those  awful  cries." 

Courant  emptied  the  dipper  on  the  ground. 

"  I'll  see  if  they've  got  any  whisky.  You'll  have 
to  get  your  grit  up,  David,  for  the  rest  of  the  trail," 
and  he  left  them. 

A  half  hour  later  the  cry  of  "  Roll  out "  sounded, 
and  the  Mormon  camp  broke.  The  rattling  of  chains 
and  ox  yokes,  and  the  cursing  of  men  ruptured  the 
stillness  that  had  gathered  round  the  moment  of 
death.  Life  was  a  matter  of  more  immediate  im 
portance.  Tents  were  struck,  the  pots  and  pans 
thrown  into  the  wagons,  the  children  collected,  the 
stock  driven  in.  With  ponderous  strain  and  move 
ment  the  great  train  formed  and  took  the  road.  As 
it  drew  away  the  circle  of  its  bivouac  showed  in 
trampled  sage  and  grass  bitten  to  the  roots.  In  the 
clearing  where  the  boy  had  lain  was  the  earth  of  a 
new-made  grave,  a  piece  of  wood  thrust  in  at  the 
head,  the  mound  covered  with  stones  gathered  by  the 
elder's  young  wife.  The  mountain  tragedy  was  over. 
By  the  fire  that  evening  Zavier  employed  himself 
scraping  the  dust  from  a  buffalo  skull.  He  wiped 

247 


The  Emigrant  Trail 

the  frontal  bone  clean  and  white,  and  when  asked 
why  he  was  expending  so  much  care  on  a  useless 
relic,  shrugged  his  shoulders  and  laughed.  Then  he 
explained  with  a  jerk  of  his  head  in  the  direction 
of  the  vanished  Mormons  that  they  used  buffalo 
skulls  to  write  their  letters  on.  In  the  great  emi 
gration  of  the  year  before  their  route  was  marked 
by  the  skulls  set  up  in  prominent  places  and  bear 
ing  messages  for  the  trains  behind. 

"  And  are  you  going  to  write  a  letter  on  that 
one  ?  "  Susan  asked. 

"  No ;  I  do  not  write  English  good,  and  French 
very  bad.  But  maybe  some  one  else  will  use  it," 
and  he  laughed  boyishly  and  laid  the  skull  by  the 
fire. 

In  the  depth  of  the  night  Susan  was  wakened 
by  a  hand  on  her  shoulder  that  shook  her  from  a 
dreamless  sleep.  She  started  up  with  a  cry  and  felt 
another  hand,  small  and  cold  on  her  mouth,  and 
heard  a  whispering  voice  at  her  ear, 

"  Hush.    Don't  make  a  sound.    It's  Lucy." 

She  gripped  at  the  figure,  felt  the  clasp  of  trem 
bling  arms,  and  a  cheek  chill  with  the  night  cold, 
against  her  own. 

"  Lucy,"  she  gasped,  "  what's  the  matter?  " 

"  I  want  to  speak  to  you.     Be  quiet." 

"  Has  anything  happened  ?     Is  some  one  sick  ?  " 

"  No.    It's  not  that.     I'm  going." 

"  Going?  Going  where — "  She  was  not  yet  fully 
awake,  filaments  of  sleep  clouded  her  clearness. 

"  Into  the  mountains  with  Zavier." 


The  Mountains 

The  filaments  were  brushed  away  in  a  rough 
sweep.  But  her  brain  refused  to  accept  the  mes 
sage.  In  the  dark,  she  clutched  at  the  body 
against  her,  felt  the  beat  of  pulses  distinct  through 
the  clothing,  the  trembling  of  the  hands  going 
down  through  her  flesh  and  muscle  to  her  heart. 

"  What  do  you  mean  ?    Where  ?  " 

"  I  don't  know,  into  the  mountains  somewhere." 

"WithZavier?    Why?" 

"  Because  he  wants  me  to  and  I  must." 

"  But —  Oh,  Lucy — "  she  struggled  from  the 
blanket  to  her  knees—"  Oh,  Lucy!  " 

Her  voice  rose  high  and  the  hand  felt  for  her 
mouth.  She  caught  it  and  held  it  off,  her  head 
bent  back  straining  her  eyes  for  the  face  above 
her. 

"Running  away  with  him?" 

'  Yes.  I  couldn't  go  without  telling  you.  I  had 
to  say  good-by." 

"  Going  with  him  forever,  not  coming  back  ?  " 

"No,  never!" 

"  But  where — where  to?  " 

"  I  don't  know.  In  the  mountains  somewhere. 
There's  a  trail  here  he  knows.  It  branches  off  to 
the  north  and  goes  up  to  the  places  where  they  get 
the  skins." 

"  I  don't  believe  you." 

"  It's  true.    The  horses  are  waiting  outside." 

"  Lucy,  you've  gone  crazy.  Don't — don't  " — 
She  clung  to  the  hand  she  held,  grasped  upward  at 
the  arm.  Both  were  cold  and  resistant.  Her  plead- 

249 


The  Emigrant  Trail 

ing  struck  back  from  the  hardness  of  the  mind  made 
up,  the  irrevocable  resolution. 

"  But  he's  not  your  husband." 

Even  at  this  moment,  keyed  to  an  act  of  lawless 
ness  that  in  the  sheltered  past  would  have  been  as 
impossible  as  murder,  the  great  tradition  held  fast. 
Lucy's  answer  came  with  a  sudden  flare  of  shocked 
repudiation : 

"  He  will  be.  There  are  priests  and  missionaries 
up  there  among  the  Indians.  The  first  one  we  meet 
will  marry  us.  It's  all  right.  He  loves  me  and  he's 
promised." 

Nothing  of  her  wild  courage  came  to  the  other 
girl,  no  echo  of  the  call  of  life  and  passion.  It  was 
a  dark  and  dreadful  fate,  and  Susan  strained  her 
closer  as  if  to  hold  her  back  from  it. 

"  It's  been  fixed  for  two  days.  We  had  to  wait 
till  we  got  here  and  crossed  the  trail.  We're  going 
right  into  the  mountains  and  it's  summer,  and 
there's  plenty  of  game." 

"The  Indians?" 

"  We'll  be  in  the  Crow's  country,  and  Zavier's 
mother  was  a  Crow." 

The  words  proved  the  completeness  of  her  es 
trangement — the  acceptance  of  the  alien  race  as  no 
longer  alien. 

"  Oh,  Lucy,  don't,  don't.  Wait  till  we  get  to 
Fort  Bridger  and  marry  him  there.  Make  him 
come  to  California  with  us.  Don't  do  such  an  aw 
ful  thing — run  away  into  the  mountains  with  a 
half-breed." 

250 


The  Mountains 

"  I  don't  care  what  he  is.  There's  no  one  else 
for  me  but  him.  He's  my  man  and  I'll  go  with  him 
wherever  he  wants  to  take  me." 

"  Wait  and  tell  Bella." 

"  She  wouldn't  let  me  go.  There'd  be  nothing 
but  fighting  and  misery.  When  you've  made  up 
your  mind  to  do  a  thing  you've  got  to  do  it  yourself, 
not  go  by  what  other  people  think." 

There  was  a  silence  and  they  hung  upon  each 
other.  Then  Lucy  put  her  face  against  her  friend's 
and  kissed  her. 

"  Good-by,"  she  whispered,  loosening  her  arms. 

"  I  can't  let  you  go.     I  won't.     It'll  kill  you." 

"  I  must.     He's  waiting." 

She  struggled  from  the  embrace,  pulling  away 
the  clasping  hands  noiselessly,  but  with  purpose. 
There  was  something  of  coldness,  of  the  semblance 
but  not  the  soul  of  affection,  in  the  determined 
softness  with  which  she  sought  release.  She 
stole  to  the  tent  flap  and  peered  out.  Her 
thoughts  were  already  outside,  flown  to  the  shape 
hiding  in  the  shadow  like  birds  darting  from  a 
cage.  She  did  not  turn  at  Susan's  strangled 
whisper. 

"  We'll  never  see  you  again,  Bella,  nor  I,  nor 
the  children." 

"  Perhaps,  some  day,  in  California.  He's  there. 
I  must  go." 

"Lucy!"  She  leaped  after  her.  In  the  tent 
opening  they  once  more  clasped  each  other. 

"  I  can't  let  you  go,"  Susan  moaned. 
251 


The  Emigrant  Trail 

But  Lucy's  kiss  had  not  the  fervor  of  hers.  The 
strength  of  her  being  had  gone  to  her  lover. 
Friendship,  home,  family,  all  other  claims  hung 
loose  about  her,  the  broken  trappings  of  her 
maidenhood.  The  great  primal  tie  had  claimed 
her. 

A  black  figure  against  the  pallor  of  the  night, 
she  turned  for  a  last  word. 

"If  you  tell  them  and  they  come  after  us, 
Zavier'll  fight  them.  He'll  fight  if  he  kills  them. 
They'll  know  to-morrow.  Good-by,"  and  she  was 
gone,  a  noiseless  shadow,  flitting  toward  the  denser 
group  of  shadow  where  her  heart  was. 

Susan,  crouched  at  the  tent  flap,  saw  her  melt 
into  the  waiting  blackness,  and  then  heard  the  muf 
fled  hoof  beats  growing  thinner  and  fainter  as  the 
silence  absorbed  them. 

She  sat  thus  till  the  dawn  came.  Once  or  twice 
she  started  up  to  give  the  alarm,  but  fell  back.  Un 
der  the  tumult  of  her  thoughts  a  conviction  lay  that 
Lucy  must  follow  her  own  wild  way.  In  the  welter 
of  confused  emotion  it  was  all  that  was  clear.  It  may 
have  come  from  that  sense  of  Lucy's  detachment, 
that  consciousness  of  cords  and  feelers  stretching 
out  to  a  new  life  which  commanded  and  held  closer 
than  the  old  had  ever  done.  All  she  knew  was  that 
Lucy  was  obeying  some  instinct  that  was  law  to 
her,  that  was  true  for  her  to  obey.  If  they  caught 
her  and  brought  her  back  it  would  twist  her  life 
into  a  broken  form.  Was  it  love  ?  Was  that  what 
had  drawn  her  over  all  obstacles,  away  from  the 

252 


The  Mountains 

established  joys  and  comforts,  drawn  her  like  a 
magnet  to  such  a  desperate  course?  With  wide 
eyes  the  girl  saw  the  whiteness  of  the  dawn,  and  sat 
gripped  in  her  resolution  of  silence,  fearful  at  the 
thought  of  what  that  mighty  force  must  be. 


253 


CHAPTER    V 

THE  cross,  drowsy  bustle  of  the  camp's  uprising 
was  suddenly  broken  by  a  piercing  cry.  It  came 
from  Bella,  who,  standing  by  the  mess  chest,  was 
revealed  to  her  astonished  companions  with  a  buf 
falo  skull  in  her  hands,  uttering  as  dolorous  sounds 
as  ever  were  emitted  by  that  animal  in  the  agony 
of  its  death  throes.  Her  words  were  unintelligible, 
but  on  taking  the  skull  from  her  the  cause  of  her 
disturbance  was  made  known.  Upon  the  frontal 
bone  were  a  few  words  scrawled  in  pencil — Lucy's 
farewell. 

It  came  upon  them  like  a  thunderbolt,  and  they 
took  it  in  different  ways — amazed  silence,  curses, 
angry  questionings.  The  skull  passed  from  hand 
to  hand  till  Courant  dropped  it  and  kicked  it  to  one 
side  where  Left  went  after  it,  lifted  it  by  the  horns 
and  stood  spelling  out  the  words  with  a  grin.  The 
children,  at  first  rejoicing  in  the  new  excitement, 
soon  recognized  the  note  of  dole,  lifted  up  their 
voices  and  filled  the  air  with  cries  for  Lucy  upon 
whom,  in  times  of  tribulation,  they  had  come  to 
look.  Glen  broke  into  savage  anger,  called  down 
curses  on  his  sister-in-law,  applying  to  her  certain 
terms  of  a  scriptural  simplicity  till  the  doctor  asked 
him  to  go  afield  and  vent  his  passion  in  the  seclu- 

254 


The  Mountains 

sion  of  the  sage.  Bella,  sunk  in  heavy,  uncorseted 
despair  upon  the  mess  chest,  gripped  her  children 
to  her  knees  as  though  an  army  of  ravishers  men 
aced  the  house  of  McMurdo.  Her  words  flowed 
with  her  tears,  both  together  in  a  choked  and  bitter 
flood  of  wrath,  sorrow,  and  self-pity.  She  be 
wailed  Lucy,  not  only  as  a  vanished  relative  but  as 
a  necessary  member  of  the  McMurdo  escort.  And 
doubts  of  Zavier's  lawful  intentions  shook  her  from 
the  abandon  of  her  grief,  to  furious  invective 
against  the  red  man  of  all  places  and  tribes  where- 
so'er  he  be. 

"  The  dirty  French-Indian,"  she  wailed,  "  to  take 
her  off  where  he  knows  fast  enough  there's  no  way 
of  marrying  her." 

Courant  tried  to  console  her  by  telling  her  there 
was  a  good  chance  of  the  fugitives  meeting  a  Cath 
olic  missionary,  but  that,  instead  of  assuaging,  in 
tensified  her  woe, 

"  A  Catholic!  "  she  cried,  raising  a  drenched  face 
from  her  apron.  "  And  ain't  that  just  as  bad  ?  My 
parents  and  hers  were  decent  Presbyterians.  Does 
their  daughter  have  to  stand  up  before  a  priest? 
Why  don't  you  say  a  Mormon  elder  at  once?" 

The  McMurdos'  condition  of  grief  and  rage  was 
so  violent,  that  the  doctor  suggested  following  the 
runaways.  Bella  rose  in  glad  assent  to  this.  Catch 
Lucy  and  bring  her  back!  She  was  cheered  at  the 
thought  and  shouted  it  to  Glen,  who  had  gone  off 
.in  a  sulky  passion  and  stood  by  his  oxen  swearing 
to  himself  and  kicking  their  hoofs.  The  men  talked 

255 


The  Emigrant  Trail 

it  over.  They  could  lay  off  for  a  day  and  Courant, 
who  knew  the  trails,  could  lead  the  search  party. 
He  was  much  against  it,  and  Daddy  John  was  with 
him.  Too  much  time  had  been  lost.  Zavier  was 
an  experienced  mountain  man  and  his  horses  were 
good.  Besides,  what  was  the  use  of  bringing  them 
back  ?  They'd  chosen  each  other,  they'd  taken  their 
own  course.  It  wasn't  such  a  bad  lookout  for  Lucy. 
Zavier  was  a  first-rate  fellow  and  he'd  treat  her 
well.  What  was  the  sense  of  interfering?  Bella 
was  furious,  and  shouted, 

"  The  sense  is  to  get  her  back  here  and  keep  her 
where  it's  civilized,  since  she  don't  seem  to  know 
enough  to  keep  there  herself." 

Daddy  John,  who  had  been  listening,  flashed 
out: 

"  It  don't  seem  to  me  so  d — d  civilized  to  half 
kill  her  with  work." 

Then  Bella  wept  and  Glen  swore,  and  the  men 
had  pulled  up  the  picket  stakes,  cinched  their  girths 
tight  and  started  off  in  Indian  file  toward  the  dis 
tant  spurs  of  the  hills. 

Susan  had  said  little.  If  it  did  not  violate  her 
conscience  to  keep  silent,  it  did  to  pretend  a  sur 
prise  that  was  not  hers.  She  sat  at  her  tent  door 
most  of  the  day  watching  for  the  return  of  the 
search  party.  She  was  getting  supper  when  she 
looked  up  and  saw  them,  gave  a  low  exclamation, 
and  ran  to  the  outskirts  of  the  camp.  Here  she 
stood  watching,  heard  Daddy  John  lounge  up  be 
hind  her  and,  turning,  caught  his  hand. 

256 


The  Mountains 

"  Is  she  there  ?  "  she  said  in  an  eager  whisper. 
"  I  can't  see  her/' 

They  both  scrutinized  the  figures,  small  as  toy 
horsemen,  loping  over  the  leathern  distance. 

"  Ain't  there  only  four  ?  "  he  said.  "  You  can 
see  better'n  I." 

"  Yes,"  she  cried.  "  Four.  I  can  count  them. 
She  isn't  there.  Oh,  I'm  glad !  " 

The  old  man  looked  surprised: 

"Glad!    Why?" 

"  I  don't  know.  Oh,  don't  tell,  Daddy  John,  but 
I  wanted  her  to  get  away.  I  don't  know  why,  I 
suppose  it's  very  wicked.  But — but — it  seemed  so 
— so — as  if  she  was  a  slave — so  unfair  to  drag  her 
away  from  her  own  life  and  make  her  lead  some 
one  else's." 

Lucy  gone,  lost  as  by  shipwreck  in  the  gulfs  and 
windings  of  the  mountains,  was  a  fact  that  had  to 
be  accepted.  The  train  moved  on,  for  on  the  Emi 
grant  Trail  there  was  no  leisure  for  fruitless  re 
pining.  Only  immediate  happenings  could  fill  the 
minds  of  wanderers  struggling  across  the  world, 
their  energies  matched  against  its  primal  forces. 

The  way  was  growing  harder,  the  animals  less 
vigorous,  and  the  strain  of  the  journey  beginning 
to  tell.  Tempers  that  had  been  easy  in  the  long, 
bright  days  on  the  Platte  now  were  showing  sharp 
edges.  Leff  had  become  surly,  Glen  quarrelsome. 
One  evening  Susan  saw  him  strike  Bob  a  blow  so 
savage  that  the  child  fell  screaming  in  pain  and 
terror.  Bella  rushed  to  her  first  born,  gathered  him 

257 


The  Emigrant  Trail 

in  her  arms  and  turned  a  crimsoned  face  of  battle 
on  her  spouse.  For  a  moment  the  storm  was  furi 
ous,  and  Susan  was  afraid  that  the  blow  would  be 
repeated  on  the  mother.  She  tried  to  pacify  the 
enraged  woman,  and  David  and  the  doctor  coaxed 
Glen  away.  The  child  had  struck  against  an  edge 
of  stone  and  was  bleeding,  and  after  supper  the 
father  rocked  him  to  sleep  crooning  over  him  in 
remorseful  tenderness.  But  the  incident  left  an 
ugly  impression. 

They  were  passing  up  the  Sweetwater,  a  moun 
tain  stream  of  busy  importance  with  a  current  that 
was  snow-cold  and  snow-pure.  It  wound  its  hur 
rying  way  between  rock  walls,  and  then  relaxed  in 
lazy  coils  through  meadows  where  the  grass  was 
thick  and  juicy  and  the  air  musical  with  the  cool 
sound  of  water.  These  were  the  pleasant  places. 
Where  the  rocks  crowded  close  about  the  stream 
the  road  left  it  and  sought  the  plain  again,  splind- 
ing  away  into  the  arid  desolation.  The  wheels 
ground  over  myriads  of  crickets  that  caked  in  the 
loose  soil.  There  was  nothing  to  break  the  eye- 
sweep  but  the  cones  of  rusted  buttes,  the  nearer 
ones  showing  every  crease  and  shadow  thread,  the 
farther  floating  detached  in  the  faint,  opal  shimmer 
of  the  mirage. 

One  afternoon,  in  a  deep-grassed  meadow  they 
came  upon  an  encamped  train  outflung  on  the 
stream  bank  in  wearied  disarray.  It  was  from 
Ohio,  bound  for  California,  and  Glen  and  Bella  de 
cided  to  join  it.  This  was  what  the  doctor's  party 

258 


The  Mountains 

had  been  hoping  for,  as  the  slow  pace  of  the  Mc- 
Murdo  oxen  held  them  back.  Bella  was  well  and 
the  doctor  could  conscientiously  leave  her.  It  was 
time  to  part. 

Early  in  the  morning  the  two  trains  rolled  out 
under  a  heavy  drizzle.  Rain  fell  within  the  wagons 
even  as  it  did  without,  Susan  weeping  among  the 
sacks  behind  Daddy  John  and  Bella  with  her  chil 
dren  whimpering  against  her  sides,  stopping  in  her 
knitting  to  wipe  away  her  tears  with  the  long  strip 
of  stocking  leg.  They  were  to  meet  again  in  Cali 
fornia — that  everyone  said.  But  California  looked  a 
long  way  off,  and  now. — For  some  reason  or  other 
it  did  not  gleam  so  magically  bright  at  the  limit 
of  their  vision.  Their  minds  had  grown  tired  of 
dwelling  on  it  and  sank  down  wearied  to  each  day's 
hard  setting. 

By  midday  the  doctor's  wagons  had  left  the 
others  far  behind.  The  rain  fell  ceaselessly,  a  cold 
and  penetrating  flood.  The  crowding  crowns  and 
crests  about  them  loomed  through  the  blur,  pale 
and  slowly  whitening  with  falling  snow.  Beyond, 
the  greater  masses  veiled  themselves  in  cloud.  The 
road  skirted  the  river,  creeping  through  a  series  of 
gorges  with  black  walls  down  which  the  moisture 
spread  in  a  ripple-edged,  glassy  glaze.  Twice 
masses  of  fallen  rock  blocked  the  way,  and  the 
horses  had  to  be  unhitched  and  the  wagons  dragged 
into  the  stream  bed.  It  was  heavy  work,  and  when 
they  camped,  ferociously  hungry,  no  fire  could  be 
kindled,  and  there  was  nothing  for  it  but  to  eat  the 

259 


The  Emigrant  Trail 

hard-tack  damp  and  bacon  raw.  Leff  cursed  and 
threw  his  piece  away.  He  had  been  unusually  mo 
rose  and  ill-humored  for  the  last  week,  and  once, 
when  obliged  to  do  sentry  duty  on  a  wet  night,  had 
flown  into  a  passion  and  threatened  to  leave  them. 
No  one  would  have  been  sorry.  Under  the  stress 
of  mountain  faring,  the  farm  boy  was  not  develop 
ing  well. 

In  the  afternoon  the  rain  increased  to  a  deluge. 
The  steady  beat  on  the  wagon  hoods  filled  the  in 
terior  with  a  hollow  drumming  vibration.  Against 
the  dimmed  perspective  the  flanks  of  the  horses  un 
dulated  under  a  sleek  coating  of  moisture.  Back 
of  the  train,  the  horsemen  rode,  heads  lowered 
against  the  vicious  slant,  shadowy  forms  like 
drooping,  dispirited  ghosts.  The  road  wound 
into  a  gorge  where  the  walls  rose  straight,  the 
black  and  silver  of  the  river  curbed  between 
them  in  glossy  outspreadings  and  crisp,  bubbling 
flashes.  The  place  was  full  of  echoes,  held  there 
and  buffeted  from  wall  to  wall  as  if  flying  back  and 
forth  in  a  distracted  effort  to  escape. 

David  was  driving  in  the  lead,  Susan  under 
cover  beside  him.  The  morning's  work  had  ex 
hausted  him  and  he  felt  ill,  so  she  had  promised  to 
stay  with  him.  She  sat  close  at  his  back,  a  blanket 
drawn  over  her  knees  against  the  intruding  wet, 
peering  out  at  the  darkling  cleft.  The  wagon, 
creaking  like  a  ship  at  sea,  threw  her  this  way  and 
that.  Once,  as  she  struck  against  him  he  heard 
her  low  laugh  at  his  ear. 

260 


The  Mountains 

"  It's  like  a  little  earthquake,"  she  said,  steady 
ing  herself  with  a  grab  at  his  coat. 

"  There  must  have  been  a  big  earthquake  here 
once/'  he  answered.  "  Look  at  the  rocks.  They've 
been  split  as  if  a  great  force  came  up  from  under 
neath  and  burst  them  open." 

She  craned  her  head  forward  to  see  and  he 
looked  back  at  her.  Her  face  was  close  to  his 
shoulder,  glowing  with  the  dampness.  It  shone 
against  the  shadowed  interior  rosily  fresh  as  a 
child's.  Her  eyes,  clear  black  and  white,  were  the 
one  sharp  note  in  its  downy  softness.  He  could 
see  the  clean  upspringing  of  her  dark  lashes,  the 
little  whisps  of  hair  against  her  temple  and  ear. 
He  could  not  look  away  from  her.  The  grinding 
and  slipping  of  the  horses'  hoofs  did  not  reach  his 
senses,  held  captive  in  a  passionate  observation. 

''  You  don't  curl  your  hair  any  more  ?  "  he  said, 
and  the  intimacy  of  this  personal  query  added  to  his 
entrancement. 

She  glanced  quickly  at  him  and  broke  into 
shamefaced  laughter.  A  sudden  lurch  threw  her 
against  him  and  she  clutched  his  arm. 

"  Oh,  David,"  she  said,  gurgling  at  the  memory. 
"  Did  you  know  that  ?  I  curled  it  for  three  nights 
on  bits  of  paper  that  I  tore  out  of  the  back  of 
father's  diary.  And  now  I  don't  care  what  it  looks 
like.  See  how  I've  changed !  " 

And  she  leaned  against  him,  holding  the  arm  and 
laughing  at  her  past  frivolity.  His  eyes  slid  back 
to  the  horses,  but  he  did  not  see  them.  With  a 

261 


The  Emigrant  Trail 

slight,  listening  smile  he  gave  himself  up  to  the  in 
toxication  of  the  moment,  feeling  the  pressure  of 
her  body  soft  against  his  arm. 

The  reins  which  hung  loose  suddenly  jerked 
through  his  fingers  and  the  mare  fell  crashing  to 
her  knees.  She  was  down  before  he  knew  it,  head 
forward,  and  then  with  a  quivering  subsidence, 
prone  in  a  tangle  of  torn  harness.  He  urged  her 
up  with  a  jerked  rein,  she  made  a  struggling  effort, 
but  fell  back,  and  a  groan,  singularly  human  in  its 
pain,  burst  from  her.  The  wagon  behind  pounded 
almost  on  them,  the  mules  crowding  against  each 
other,  Daddy  John's  voice  rising  in  a  cracked  hail. 
Courant  and  Leff  came  up  from  the  rear,  splashing 
through  the  river. 

"  What's  happened  ?  "  said  the  former. 

"  It's  Bess,"  said  David,  his  face  pallid  with  con 
trition.  "  I  hope  to  God  she's  not  hurt.  Up,  Bess, 
there !  Up  on  your  feet,  old  girl !  " 

At  her  master's  voice  the  docile  brute  made  a 
second  attempt  to  rise,  but  again  sank  down,  her 
sides  panting,  her  head  strained  up. 

Leff  leaped  off  his  horse. 

"  Damn  her,  I'll  make  her  get  up/'  he  said,  and 
gave  her  a  violent  kick  on  the  ribs.  The  mare 
rolled  an  agonized  eye  upon  him,  and  with  a  sud 
den  burst  of  fury  he  rained  kick  after  kick  on  her 
face. 

David  gave  a  strange  sound,  a  pinched,  thin  cry, 
as  if  wrung  from  him  by  unbearable  suffering,  and 
leaped  over  the  wheel.  He  struck  Leff  on  the  chest, 

262 


The  Mountains 

a  blow  so  savage  and  unexpected  that  it  sent  him 
staggering  back  into  the  stream,  where,  his  feet 
slipping  among  the  stones,  he  fell  sprawling. 

"  Do  that  again  and  I'll  kill  you,"  David  cried, 
and  moving  to  the  horse  stood  over  it  with  legs 
spread  and  fists  clinched  for  battle. 

Leff  scrambled  to  his  knees,  his  face  ominous, 
and  Courant,  who  had  been  looking  at  the  mare, 
apparently  indifferent  to  the  quarrel,  now  slipped 
to  the  ground. 

"  Let  that  hound  alone/'  he  said.  "  I'm  afraid 
it's  all  up  with  Bess." 

David  turned  and  knelt  beside  her,  touching  her 
with  hands  so  tremulous  he  could  hardly  direct 
them.  His  breath  came  in  gasps,  he  was  shaken 
and  blinded  with  passion,  high-pitched  and  nerve- 
wracking  as  a  woman's. 

Leff  rose,  volleying  curses. 

"  Here  you,"  Courant  shifted  a  hard  eye  on  him, 
"  get  out.  Get  on  your  horse  and  go,"  then  turn 
ing  to  Bess,  "  Damn  bad  luck  if  we  got  to  lose  her." 

Leff  stood  irresolute,  his  curses  dying  away  in 
smothered  mutterings.  His  skin  was  gray,  a  trickle 
of  blood  ran  down  from  a  cut  on  his  neck,  his  face 
showed  an  animal  ferocity,  dark  and  lowering  as 
the  front  of  an  angry  bull.  With  a  slow  lift  of  his 
head  he  looked  at  Susan,  who  was  still  in  the 
wagon.  She  met  the  glance  stonily  with  eyes  in 
which  her  dislike  had  suddenly  crystallized  into 
open  abhorrence.  She  gave  a  jerk  of  her  head 
toward  his  horse,  a  movement  of  contemptuous 

263 


The  Emigrant  Trail 

command,  and  obeying  it  he  mounted  and  rode 
away. 

She  joined  the  two  men,  who  were  examining 
Bess,  now  stretched  motionless  and  uttering  pitiful 
sounds.  David  had  the  head,  bruised  and  torn  by 
LefFs  kicks,  on  his  knees,  while  Courant  with  ex 
pert  hands  searched  for  her  hurt.  It  was  not  hard 
to  find.  The  left  foreleg  had  been  broken  at  the 
knee,  splinters  of  bone  penetrating  the  skin.  There 
was  nothing  to  do  with  Bess  but  shoot  her,  and 
Courant  went  back  for  his  pistols,  while  Daddy 
John  and  the  doctor  came  up  to  listen  with 
long  faces.  It  was  the  first  serious  loss  of  the 
trip. 

Later  in  the  day  the  rain  stopped  and  the  clouds 
that  had  sagged  low  with  its  weight,  began  to  dis 
solve  into  vaporous  lightness,  float  airily  and  dis 
perse.  The  train  debouched  from  the  gorge  into 
one  of  the  circular  meadows  and  here  found  Left 
lying  on  a  high  spot  on  the  ground,  his  horse  crop 
ping  the  grass  near  him.  He  made  no  remark,  and 
as  they  came  to  a  halt  and  began  the  work  of  camp 
ing,  he  continued  to  lie  without  moving  or  speak 
ing,  his  eyes  fixed  on  the  mountains. 

These  slowly  unveiled  themselves,  showing  in 
patches  of  brilliant  color  through  rents  in  the  mist 
which  drew  off  lingeringly,  leaving  filaments 
caught  delicately  in  the  heights.  The  sky  broke 
blue  behind  them,  and  clarified  by  the  rain,  the 
shadows  brimmed  high  in  the  clefts.  The  low  sun 
shot  its  beams  across  the  meadow,  leaving  it  un- 

264 


The  Mountains 

touched,  and  glittering  on  the  remote,  immaculate 
summits. 

In  exhaustion  the  camp  lay  resting,  tents  un- 
pitched,  the  animals  nosing  over  the  grass.  David 
and  Daddy  John  slept  a  dead  sleep  rolled  in  blan 
kets  on  the  teeming  ground.  Courant  built  a  fire, 
called  Susan  to  it,  and  bade  her  dry  her  wet  skirts. 
He  lay  near  it,  not  noticing  her,  his  glance  ranging 
the  distance.  The  line  of  whitened  peaks  began  to 
take  on  a  golden  glaze,  and  the  shadows  in  the 
hollow  mounted  till  the  camp  seemed  to  be  at  the 
bottom  of  a  lake  in  which  a  tide  of  some  gray, 
transparent  essence  was  rising. 

"  That's  where  Lucy's  gone,"  he  said  suddenly 
without  moving  his  head. 

Susan's  eyes  followed  his. 

"  Poor  Lucy !  "  she  sighed. 

"Why  is  she  poor?" 

"  Why  ?  "  indignantly.     "  What  a  question !  " 

"  But  why  do  you  call  her  poor  ?  Is  it  because 
she  has  no  money  ?  " 

"  Of  course  not.  Who  was  thinking  of  money  ? 
I  meant  she  was  unfortunate  to  run  away  to  such  a 
life  with  a  half-breed." 

"  She's  gone  out  into  the  mountains  with  her 
lover.  I  don't  call  that  unfortunate,  and  I'll  bet  you 
she  doesn't.  She  was  brave  enough  to  take  her  life 
when  it  came.  She  was  a  gallant  girl,  that  Lucy." 

"  I  suppose  that's  what  you'd  think." 

And  in  scorn  of  more  words  she  gave  her  atten 
tion  to  her  skirt,  spreading  its  sodden  folds  to  the 

265 


The  Emigrant  Trail 

heat.  Courant  clasped  his  hands  behind  his  head 
and  gazed  ruminantly  before  him. 

"  Do  you  know  how  she'll  live,  that  '  poor 
Lucy'?" 

"  Like  a  squaw." 

He  was  unshaken  by  her  contempt,  did  not  seem 
to  notice  it. 

"  They'll  go  by  ways  that  wind  deep  into  the 
mountains.  It's  wonderful  there,  peaks  and  peaks 
and  peaks,  and  down  the  gorges  and  up  over  the 
passes,  the  trails  go  that  only  the  trappers  and  the 
Indians  know.  They'll  pass  lakes  as  smooth  as 
glass  and  green  as  this  hollow  we're  in.  You  never 
saw  such  lakes,  everything's  reflected  in  them  like 
a  mirror.  And  after  a  while  they'll  come  to  the 
beaver  streams  and  Zavier'll  set  his  traps.  At  night 
they'll  sleep  under  the  stars,  great  big  stars.  Did 
you  ever  see  the  stars  at  night  through  the  branch 
es  of  the  pine  trees?  They  look  like  lanterns.  It'll 
seem  to  be  silent,  but  the  night  will  be  full  of 
noises,  the  sounds  that  come  in  those  wild  places, 
a  wolf  howling  in  the  distance,  the  little  secret  bub 
bling  of  the  spring,  and  the  wind  in  the  pine  trees. 
That's  a  sad  sound,  as  if  it  was  coming  through 
a  dream." 

The  girl  stirred  and  forgot  her  skirt.  The  sol 
emn  beauty  that  his  words  conjured  up  called  her 
from  her  petty  irritation.  She  looked  at  the  moun 
tains,  her  face  full  of  a  wistful  disquiet. 

"  And  it'll  seem  as  if  there  was  no  one  else  but 
them  in  the  world.  Two  lovers  and  no  one  else, 

266 


The  Mountains 

between  the  sunrise  and  the  sunset.  There  won't 
be  anybody  else  to  matter,  or  to  look  for,  or  to  think 
about.  Just  those  two  alone,  all  day  by  the  river 
where  the  traps  are  set  and  at  night  under  the 
blanket  in  the  dark  of  the  trees." 

Susan  said  nothing.  For  some  inexplicable  rea 
son  her  spirits  sank  and  she  felt  a  bleak  loneliness. 
A  sense  of  insignificance  fell  heavily  upon  her,  bear 
ing  down  her  high  sufficiency,  making  her  feel  that 
she  was  a  purposeless  spectator  on  the  outside  of 
life.  She  struggled  against  it,  struggled  back  to 
ward  cheer  and  self-assertion,  and  in  her  effort  to 
get  back,  found  herself  seeking  news  of  less  pic 
turesque  moments  in  Lucy's  lot. 

"  But  the  winter,"  she  said  in  a  small  voice  like 
a  pleading  child's,  "  the  winter  won't  be  like  that  ?  " 

"  When  the  winter  comes  Zavier'll  build  a  hut. 
He'll  make  it  out  of  small  trees,  long  and  thin, 
bent  round  with  their  tops  stuck  in  the  ground, 
and  he'll  thatch  it  with  skins,  and  spread  buffalo 
robes  on  the  floor  of  it.  There'll  be  a  hole  for  the 
smoke  to  get  out,  and  near  the  door'll  be  his  grain 
ing  block  and  stretching  frame  to  cure  his  skins. 
On  a  tree  nearby  he'll  hang  his  traps,  and  there'll 
be  a  brace  of  elkhorns  fastened  to  another  tree  that 
they'll  use  for  a  rack  to  hang  the  meat  and  maybe 
their  clothes  on.  They'll  have  some  coffee  and 
sugar  and  salt.  That's  all  they'll  need  in  the  way 
of  eatables,  for  he'll  shoot  all  the  game  they  want, 
les  aliments  du  pays,  as  the  fur  men  call  it.  It'll 
be  cold,  and  maybe  for  months  they'll  see  no  one. 

267 


The  Emigrant  Trail 

But  what  will  it  matter?  They'll  have  each  other, 
snug  and  warm  way  off  there  in  the  heart  of  the 
mountains,  with  the  big  peaks  looking  down  at 
them.  Isn't  that  a  good  life  for  a  man  and  a 
woman  ?  " 

She  did  not  answer,  but  sat  as  if  contemplating 
the  picture  with  fixed,  far-seeing  gaze.  He  raised 
himself  on  his  elbow  and  looked  at  her. 

"Could  you   do  that,  little  lady?"  he  said. 

"  No,"  she  answered,  beating  down  rebellious  in 
ner  whisperings. 

"  Wouldn't  you  follow  David  that  way?  " 

"  David  wouldn't  ask  it.  No  civilized  man 
would." 

"  No,  David  wouldn't,"  he  said  quietly. 

She  glanced  quickly  at  him.  Did  she  hear  the 
note  of  mockery  which  she  sensed  whenever  he 
alluded  to  her  lover?  She  was  ready  at  once  to 
take  up  arms  for  David,  but  the  face  opposite  was 
devoid  of  any  expression  save  an  intent,  expectant 
interest.  She  dropped  her  eyes  to  her  dress,  per 
turbed  by  the  closeness  of  her  escape  from  a  foolish 
exhibition  which  would  have  made  her  ridiculous. 
She  always  felt  with  Courant  that  she  would  be 
swept  aside  as  a  trivial  thing  if  she  lost  her  dignity. 
He  watched  her  and  she  grew  nervous,  plucking  at 
her  skirt  with  an  uncertain  hand. 

"  I  wonder  if  you  could?  "  he  said  after  a  pause. 

"  Of  course  not,"  she  snapped. 

"  Aren't  you  enough  of  a  woman?  " 

"  I'm  not  enough  of  a  fool." 
268 


The  Mountains 

"  Aren't  all  women  in  love  fools — anyway  for  a 
while?" 

She  made  no  answer,  and  presently  he  said,  his 
voice  lowered : 

"  Not  enough  of  a  woman  to  know  how  to  love 
a  man.  Doesn't  even  for  a  moment  understand  it. 
It's  '  poor  Susan.'  " 

Fury  seized  her,  for  she  had  not  guessed  where 
he  was  leading  her,  and  now  saw  herself  not  only 
shorn  of  her  dignity  but  shorn  of  her  woman's  pre 
rogative  of  being  able  to  experience  a  mad  and  un 
reasonable  passion. 

"  You're  a  liar,"  she  burst  out  before  she  knew 
what  words  were  coming. 

"  Then  you  think  you  could  ?  "  he  asked  without 
the  slightest  show  of  surprise  at  her  violence,  ap 
parently  only  curious. 

"  Don't  I  ?  "  she  cried,  ready  to  proclaim  that  she 
would  follow  David  to  destruction  and  death. 

"  I  don't  know,"  he  answered.  "  I've  been  won 
dering." 

"  What  business  have  you  got  to  wonder  about 
me?" 

"  None — but,"  he  leaned  toward  her,  "  you  can't 
stop  me  doing  that,  little  lady;  that's  one  of  the 
things  you  can't  control." 

For  a  moment  they  eyed  each  other,  glance  held 
glance  in  a  smoldering  challenge.  The  quizzical 
patronage  had  gone  from  his,  the  gleam  of  a  sub 
dued  defiance  taken  its  place.  Hers  was  defiant 
too,  but  it  was  openly  so,  a  surface  thing  that  she 

269 


The  Emigrant  Trail 

had  raised  like  a  defense  in  haste  and  tremor  to 
hide  weakness. 

David  moved  in  his  blanket,  yawned  and  threw 
out  a  languid  hand.  She  leaped  to  her  feet  and  ran 
to  him. 

"  David,  are  you  better  ?  "  she  cried,  kneeling  be 
side  him.  "  Are  you  better,  dear  ?  " 

He  opened  his  eyes,  blinking,  saw  the  beloved 
face,  and  smiled. 

"All  right,"  he  said  sleepily.  "I  was  only 
tired." 

She  lifted  one  of  the  limp  hands  and  pressed  it 
to  her  cheek. 

"  I've  been  so  worried  about  you,"  she  purred. 
"  I  couldn't  put  my  mind  on  anything  else.  I 
haven't  known  what  I  was  saying,  I've  been  so 
worried." 


270 


CHAPTER   VI 

SOUTH  PASS,  that  had  been  pictured  in  their 
thoughts  as  a  cleft  between  snow-crusted  summits, 
was  a  wide,  gentle  incline  with  low  hills  sweeping 
tip  on  either  side.  From  here  the  waters  ran  west 
ward,  following  the  sun.  Pacific  Spring  seeped 
into  the  ground  in  an  oasis  of  green  whence  whis 
pering  threads  felt  their  way  into  the  tawny  silence 
and  subdued  by  its  weight  lost  heart  and  sank  into 
the  unrecording  earth. 

Here  they  found  the  New  York  Company  and 
a  Mormon  train  filling  up  their  water  casks  and 
growing  neighborly  in  talk  of  Subletted  cut  off  and 
the  route  by  the  Big  and  Little  Sandy.  A  man  was 
a  man  even  if  he  was  a  Mormon,  and  in  a  country 
so  intent  on  its  own  destiny,  so  rapt  in  the  calm 
of  contemplation,  he  took  his  place  as  a  human 
unit  on  whom  his  creed  hung  like  an  unnoticed  tag. 

They  filled  their  casks,  visited  in  the  two  camps, 
and  then  moved  on.  Plain  opened  out  of  plain  in 
endless  rotation,  rings  of  sun-scorched  earth 
brushed  up  about  the  horizon  in  a  low  ridge  like 
the  raised  rim  on  a  plate.  In  the  distance  the  thin 
skein  of  a  water  course  drew  an  intricate  pattern 
that  made  them  think  of  the  thread  of  slime  left 
by  a  wandering  snail.  In  depressions  where  the 

271 


The  Emigrant  Trail 

soil  was  webbed  with  cracks,  a  livid  scurf  broke  out 
as  if  the  face  of  the  earth  were  scarred  with  the 
traces  of  inextinguishable  foulness.  An  even  sub 
dual  of  tint  marked  it  all.  White  had  been  mixed 
on  the  palette  whence  the  colors  were  drawn.  The 
sky  was  opaque  with  it;  it  had  thickened  the  red- 
browns  and  yellows  to  ocher  and  pale  shades  of 
putty.  Nothing  moved  and  there  were  no  sounds, 
only  the  wheeling  sun  changed  the  course  of  the 
shadows.  In  the  morning  they  slanted  from  the 
hills  behind,  eagerly  stretching  after  the  train, 
straining  to  overtake  and  hold  it,  a  living  plaything 
in  this  abandoned  land.  At  midday  a  blot  of  black 
lay  at  the  root  of  every  sage  brush.  At  evening 
each  filigreed  ridge,  each  solitary  cone  rising  de 
tached  in  the  sealike  circle  of  its  loneliness,  showed 
a  slant  of  amethyst  at  its  base,  growing  longer  and 
finer,  tapering  prodigiously,  and  turning  purple  as 
the  earth  turned  orange. 

There  was  little  speech  in  the  moving  caravan. 
With  each  day  their  words  grew  fewer,  their 
laughter  and  light  talk  dwindled.  Gradual  changes 
had  crept  into  the  spirit  of  the  party.  Accumula 
tions  of  habit  and  custom  that  had  collected  upon 
them  in  the  dense  life  of  towns  were  dropping 
away.  As  the  surface  refinements  of  language  were 
dying,  so  their  faces  had  lost  a  certain  facile  play 
of  expression.  Delicate  nuances  of  feeling  no 
longer  showed,  for  they  no  longer  existed.  Smiles 
had  grown  rarer,  and  harder  characteristics  were 
molding  their  features  into  sterner  lines.  The  ac- 

272 


The  Mountains 

quired  cleceptiveness  of  the  world  of  men  was  leav 
ing  them.  Ugly  things  that  they  once  would  have 
hidden  cropped  out  unchecked  by  pride  or  fear  of 
censure.  They  did  not  care.  There  was  no  stand 
ard,  there  was  no  public  opinion.  Life  was  re 
solving  itself  into  a  few  great  needs  that  drove  out 
all  lesser  and  more  delicate  desires.  Beings  of  a 
ruder  make  were  usurping  their  bodies.  The  prim 
itive  man  in  them  was  rising  to  meet  the  primitive 
world. 

In  the  young  girl  the  process  of  elimination  was 
as  rapid  if  not  as  radical  as  in  the  case  of  the  men. 
She  was  unconsciously  ridding  herself  of  all  that 
hampered  and  made  her  unfit.  From  the  soft  fem 
inine  tissue,  intricacies  of  mood  and  fancy  were  be 
ing  obliterated.  Rudimentary  instincts  were  de 
veloping,  positive  and  barbaric  as  a  child's.  In  the 
old  days  she  had  been  dainty  about  her  food.  Now 
she  cooked  it  in  blackened  pans  and  ate  with  the 
hunger  of  the  men.  Sleep,  that  once  had  been  an 
irksome  and  unwelcome  break  between  the  pleas 
ures  of  well-ordered  days,  was  a  craving  that  she 
satisfied,  unwashed,  often  half-clad.  In  Rochester 
she  had  spent  thought  and  time  upon  her  looks, 
had  stood  before  her  mirror  matching  ribbons  to 
her  complexion,  wound  and  curled  her  hair  in  be 
coming  ways.  Now  her  hands,  hardened  and  cal 
lous  as  a  boy's,  were  coarse-skinned  with  broken 
nails,  sometimes  dirty,  and  her  hair  hung  rough 
from  the  confining  teeth  of  a  comb  and  a  few  bent 
pins.  When  in  flashes  of  retrospect  she  saw  her  old 

273 


The  Emigrant  Trail 

self,  this  pampered  self  of  crisp  fresh  frocks  and 
thoughts  moving  demurely  in  the  narrow  circle  of 
her  experience,  it  did  not  seem  as  if  it  could  be  the 
same  Susan  Gillespie. 

All  that  made  up  the  little  parcel  of  her  personal 
ity  seemed  gone.  In  those  days  she  had  liked  this 
and  wanted  that  and  forgotten  and  wanted  some 
thing  else.  Rainy  weather  had  sent  its  ashen  sheen 
over  her  spirit,  and  her  gladness  had  risen  to  meet 
the  sun.  She  remembered  the  sudden  sweeps  of 
depression  that  had  clouded  her  horizon  when  she 
had  drooped  in  an  unintelligible  and  not  entirely 
disagreeable  melancholy,  and  the  contrasting  bursts 
of  gayety  when  she  laughed  at  anything  and  loved 
everybody.  Hours  of  flitting  fancies  flying  this 
way  and  that,  hovering  over  chance  incidents  that 
were  big  by  contrast  with  the  surrounding  unevent- 
fulness,  the  idleness  of  dropped  hands  and  dream 
ing  eyes,  the  charmed  peerings  into  the  future — 
all  were  gone.  Life  had  seized  her  in  a  mighty 
grip,  shaken  her  free  of  it  all,  and  set  her  down 
where  she  felt  only  a  few  imperious  sensations, 
hunger,  fatigue,  fear  of  danger,  love  of  her  father, 
and —  She  pulled  her  thoughts  to  obedience  with 
a  sharp  jerk  and  added — love  of  David  and  hatred 
of  Courant. 

These  two  latter  facts  stood  out  sentinel-wise  in 
the  foreground.  In  the  long  hours  on  horseback 
she  went  over  them  like  a  lesson  she  was  trying  to 
learn.  She  reviewed  David's  good  points,  dwelt  on 
them,  held  them  up  for  her  admiration,  and  told 

274 


The  Mountains 

herself  no  girl  had  ever  had  a  finer  or  more  gal 
lant  lover.  She  was  convinced  of  it  and  was  quite 
ready  to  convince  anybody  who  denied  it.  Only 
when  her  mental  vision — pressed  on  by  some  in 
ward  urge  of  obscure  self-distrust — carried  her  for 
ward  to  that  future  with  David  in  the  cabin  in  Cali 
fornia,  something  in  her  shrank  and  failed.  Her 
thought  leaped  back  as  from  an  abhorrent  contact, 
and  her  body,  caught  by  some  mysterious  internal 
qualm,  felt  limp  and  faintly  sickened. 

She  dwelt  even  more  persistently  on  Courant's 
hatefulness,  impressed  upon  herself  his  faults.  He 
was  hard  and  she  had  seen  him  brutal,  a  man  with 
out  feeling,  as  he  had  shown  when  the  Mormon  boy 
died,  a  harsh  and  remorseless  leader  urging  them 
on,  grudging  them  even  their  seventh  day  rest,  deaf 
to  their  protests,  lashing  them  forward  with  con 
tempt  of  their  weakness.  This  was  above  and 
apart  from  his  manner  to  her.  That  she  tried  to 
feel  was  a  small,  personal  matter,  but,  neverthe 
less,  it  stung,  did  not  cease  to  sting,  and  left  an 
unhealed  sore  to  rankle  in  her  pride.  He  did  not 
care  to  hide  that  he  held  her  cheaply,  as  a  useless 
futile  thing.  Once  she  had  heard  him  say  to  Daddy 
John,  "  It's  the  women  in  the  train  that  make  the 
trouble.  They're  always  in  the  way."  And  she 
was  the  only  woman.  She  would  like  to  see  him 
conquered,  beaten,  some  of  his  heady  confidence 
stricken  out  of  him,  and  when  he  was  humbled  have 
stood  by  and  smiled  at  his  humiliation. 

So  she  passed  over  the  empty  land  under  the 
275 


The  Emigrant  Trail 

empty  sky,  a  particle  of  matter  carrying  its  problem 
with  it. 

It  was  late  afternoon  when  they  encamped  by 
the  Big  Sandy.  The  march  had  been  distressful, 
bitter  in  their  mouths  with  the  clinging  clouds  of 
powdered  alkali,  their  heads  bowed  under  the  glar 
ing  ball  of  the  sun.  All  day  the  circling  rim  of  sky 
line  had  weaved  up  and  down,  undulating  in  the 
uncertainty  of  the  mirage,  the  sage  had  blotted  into 
indistinct  seas  that  swam  before  their  strained 
vision.  When  the  river  cleft  showed  in  black  trac 
ings  across  the  distance,  they  stiffened  and  took 
heart,  coolness  and  water  were  ahead.  It  was  all 
they  had  hope  or  desire  for  just  then.  At  the  edge 
of  the  clay  bluff,  they  dipped  and  poured  down  a 
corrugated  gully,  the  dust  sizzling  beneath  the 
braked  wheels,  the  animals,  the  smell  of  water  in 
their  nostrils,  past  control.  The  impetus  of  the 
descent  carried  them  into  the  chill,  purling  current. 
Man  and  beast  plunged  in,  laved  in  it,  drank  it, 
and  then  lay  by  it  resting,  spent  and  inert. 

They  camped  where  a  grove  of  alders  twinkled 
in  answer  to  the  swift,  telegraphic  flashes  of  the 
stream.  Under  these  the  doctor  pitched  his  tents, 
the  hammering  of  the  pegs  driving  through  the 
sounds  of  man's  occupation  into  the  quietude  that 
lapped  them  like  sleeping  tides.  The  others  hung 
about  the  center  of  things  where  wagons  and  mess 
chests,  pans  and  fires,  made  the  nucleus  of  the 
human  habitation. 

Susan,  sitting  on  a  box,  with  a  treasure  of  dead 
276 


The  Mountains 

branches  at  her  feet,  waited  yet  a  space  before  set 
ting  them  in  the  fire  form.  She  was  sunk  in  the 
apathy  of  the  body  surrendered  to  restoring  proc 
esses.  The  men's  voices  entered  the  channels  of  her 
ears  and  got  no  farther.  Her  vision  acknowledged 
the  figure  of  Leff  nearby  sewing  up  a  rent  in  his 
coat,  but  her  brain  refused  to  accept  the  impression. 
Her  eye  held  him  in  a  heavy  vacuity,  watched  with  a 
trancelike  fixity  his  careful  stitches  and  the  armlong 
stretch  of  the  drawn  thread. 

Had  she  shifted  it  a  fraction,  it  would  have  en 
countered  David  squatting  on  the  bank  washing 
himself.  His  long  back,  the  red  shirt  drawn  taut 
across  its  bowed  outline,  showed  the  course  of  his 
spine  in  small  regular  excrescences.  The  water 
that  he  raised  in  his  hands  and  rinsed  over  his  face 
and  neck  made  a  pleasant,  clean  sound,  that  her 
ear  noted  with  the  other  sounds.  Somewhere  be 
hind  her  Daddy  John  and  Courant  made  a  noise 
with  skillets  and  picket  pins  and  spoke  a  little,  a 
sentence  mutteringly  dropped  and  monosyllabically 
answered. 

David  turned  a  streaming  face  over  his  shoulder, 
blinking  through  the  water.  The  group  he  looked 
at  was  as  idyllically  peaceful  as  wayfarers  might  be 
after  the  heat  and  burden  of  the  day.  Rest,  fel 
lowship,  a  healthy  simplicity  of  food  and  housing 
were  all  in  the  picture  either  visibly  or  by  impli 
cation. 

"  Throw  me  the  soap,  Leff,"  he  called,  "  I  for 
got  it." 

277 


The  Emigrant  Trail 

The  soap  lay  on  the  top  of  a  meal  sack,  a  yellow 
square,  placed  there  by  David  on  his  way  to  the 
water.  It  shone  between  Susan  and  Leff,  standing 
forth  as  a  survival  of  a  pampered  past.  Susan's 
eye  shifted  toward  it,  fastened  on  it,  waiting  for 
Left's  hand  to  come  and  bear  it  away.  But  the 
hand  executed  no  such  expected  maneuver.  It 
planted  the  needle  deliberately,  pushed  it  through, 
drew  it  out  with  its  long  tail  of  thread.  Surprise 
began  to  dispel  her  lethargy.  Her  eye  left  the  soap, 
traveled  at  a  more  sprightly  speed  back  to  Leff, 
lit  on  his  face  with  a  questioning  intelligence. 

David  called  again. 

"  Hurry  up.     I  want  to  light  the  fire." 

Leff  took  another  considered  stitch. 

"  I  don't  know  where  it  is,"  he  answered  without 
looking  up. 

The  questioning  of  Susan's  glance  became  accu 
sative. 

"  It's  there  beside  you  on  the  meal  sack,"  she 
said.  "  Throw  it  to  him." 

Leff  raised  his  head  and  looked  at  her.  His 
eyes  were  curiously  pale  and  wide.  She  could  see 
the  white  round  the  fixed  pupil. 

"  Do  it  yourself,"  he  answered,  his  tone  the  low 
est  that  could  reach  her.  "  Do  it  or  go  to  Hell." 

She  rested  without  movement,  her  mouth  falling 
slightly  open.  For  the  moment  there  was  a  stop 
page  of  all  feeling  but  amazement,  which  invaded 
her  till  she  seemed  to  hold  nothing  else.  David's 
voice  came  from  a  far  distance,  as  if  she  had  floated 

278 


The  Mountains 

away  from  him  and  it  was  a  cord  jerking  her  back 
to  her  accustomed  place. 

"  Hurry  up,"  it  called.  "  It's  right  there  beside 
you." 

Leff  threw  down  his  sewing  and  leaped  to  his 
feet.  Leaning  against  the  bank  behind  him  was 
his  gun,  newly  cleaned  and  primed. 

"  Get  it  yourself  and  be  d — d  to  you !  "  he  roared. 

The  machinery  of  action  stopped  as  though  by 
the  breaking  of  a  spring.  Their  watches  ticked  off 
a  few  seconds  of  mind  paralysis  in  which  there  was 
no  expectancy  or  motive  power,  all  action  inhibited. 
Sight  was  all  they  used  for  those  seconds.  Left 
spoke  first,  the  only  one  among  them  whose  think 
ing  process  had  not  been  snapped: 

"If  you  keep  on  shouting  for  me  to  do  your  er 
rands,  I'll  show  you"— he  snatched  up  the  gun 
and  brought  it  to  his  shoulder  with  a  lightning 
movement — "  I'll  send  you  where  you  can't  order 
me  round — you  and  this  d — d  -  -  here." 

The  inhibition  was  lifted  and  the  three  men 
rushed  toward  him.  Daddy  John  struck  up  the 
gun  barrel  with  a  tent  pole.  The  charge  passed 
over  David's  head,  spat  in  the  water  beyond,  the 
report  crackling  sharp  in  the  narrow  ravine.  David 
staggered,  the  projection  of  smoke  reaching  out  to 
ward  him,  his  hands  raised  to  ward  it  off,  not 
knowing  whether  he  was  hurt  or  not. 

"  That's  a  great  thing  to  do,"  he  cried,  dazed, 
and  stubbing  his  foot  on  a  stone  stumbled  to  his 
knees. 

279 


The  Emigrant  Trail 

The  two  others  fell  on  Leff.  Susan  saw  the  gun 
ground  into  the  dust  under  their  trampling  feet 
and  Leff  go  down  on  top  of  it.  Daddy  John's  tent 
pole  battered  at  him,  and  Courant  on  him,  a  writh 
ing  body,  grappled  and  wrung  at  his  throat.  The 
doctor  came  running  from  the  trees,  the  hammer 
in  his  hand,  and  Susan  grabbed  at  the  descending 
pole,  screaming: 

"  You're  killing  him.  Father,  stop  them.  They'll 
murder  him." 

The  sight  of  his  Missy  clinging  to  the  pole 
brought  the  old  man  to  his  senses,  but  it  took  David 
and  the  doctor  to  drag  Courant  away.  For  a  mo 
ment  they  were  a  knot  of  struggling  bodies,  from 
which  oaths  and  sobbing  breaths  broke.  Upright 
he  shook  them  off  and  backed  toward  the  bank, 
leaving  them  looking  at  him,  all  expectant.  He 
growled  a  few  broken  words,  his  face  white  under 
the  tan,  the  whole  man  shaken  by  a  passion  so 
transforming  that  they  forgot  the  supine  figure  and 
stood  alert,  ready  to  spring  upon  him.  He  made 
a  movement  of  his  head  toward  Leff. 

"Why  didn't  you  let  me  kill  him?"  he  said 
huskily. 

It  broke  the  tension.  Their  eyes  dropped  to  Leff, 
who  lay  motionless  and  unconscious,  blood  on  his 
lips,  a  slip  of  white  showing  under  his  eyelids.  The 
doctor  dropped  on  his  knees  beside  him  and  opened 
his  shirt.  Daddy  John  gave  him  an  investigating 
push  with  the  tent  pole,  and  David  eyed  him  with 
an  impersonal,  humane  concern.  Only  Susan's 

280 


The  Mountains 

glance  remained   on    Courant,   unfaltering   as   the 
beam  of  a  fixed  star. 

His  savage  excitement  was  on  the  ebb.  He 
pulled  his  hunting  shirt  into  place  and  felt  along  his 
belt  for  his  knife,  while  his  broad  breast  rose  like  a 
wave  coming  to  its  breakage  then  dropped  as  the 
wave  drops  into  its  hollow.  The  hand  he  put  to  his 
throat  to  unfasten  the  band  of  his  shirt  shook,  it 
had  difficulty  in  manipulating  the  button,  and  he 
ran  his  tongue  along  his  dried  lips.  She  watched 
every  movement,  to  the  outward  eye  like  a  child 
fascinated  by  an  unusual  and  terrifying  spec 
tacle.  But  her  gaze  carried  deeper  than  the  per 
turbed  envelope.  She  looked  through  to  the  man 
beneath,  felt  an  exultation  in  his  might,  knew 
herself  kindred  with  him,  fed  by  the  same  wild 
strain. 

His  glance  moved,  touched  the  unconscious  man 
at  his  feet,  then  lifting  met  hers.  Eye  held  eye. 
In  each  a  spark  leaped,  ran  to  meet  its  opposing 
spark  and  flashed  into  union. 

When  she  looked  down  again  the  group  of  fig 
ures  was  dim.  Their  talk  came  vaguely  to  her,  like 
the  talk  of  men  in  a  dream.  David  was  explain 
ing.  Daddy  John  made  a  grimace  at  him  which 
was  a  caution  to  silence.  The  doctor  had  not  heard 
and  was  not  to  hear  the  epithet  that  had  been  ap 
plied  to  his  daughter. 

"  He's  sun  mad,"  the  old  man  said.  "  Half  crazy. 
I've  seen  'em  go  that  way  before.  How'll  he  get 
through  the  desert  I'm  asking  you  ?  " 

281 


The  Emigrant  Trail 

There  were  some  contusions  on  the  head  that 
looked  bad,  the  doctor  said,  but  nothing  seemed 
to  be  broken.  He'd  been  half  strangled;  they'd 
have  to  get  him  into  the  wagon. 

"  Leave  him  at  Fort  Bridger,"  came  Courant's 
voice  through  the  haze.  "  Leave  him  there  to 
rot." 

The  doctor  answered  in  the  cold  tones  of  au 
thority  : 

"  We'll  take  him  with  us  as  we  agreed  in  the  be 
ginning.  Because  he  happens  not  to  be  able  to 
stand  it,  it's  not  for  us  to  abandon  him.  It's  a 
physical  matter — sun  and  hard  work  and  irritated 
nerves.  Take  a  hand  and  help  me  lift  him  into  the 
wagon." 

They  hoisted  him  in  and  disposed  him  on  a  bed 
of  buffalo  robes  spread  on  sacks.  He  groaned  once 
or  twice,  then  settled  on  the  softness  of  the  skins, 
gazing  at  them  with  blood-shot  eyes  of  hate.  When 
the  doctor  offered  him  medicine,  he  struck  the  tin, 
sending  its  contents  flying.  However  serious  his 
hurts  were  they  had  evidently  not  mitigated  the 
ferocity  of  his  mood. 

For  the  three  succeeding  days  he  remained  in  the 
wagon,  stiff  with  bruises  and  refusing  to  speak. 
Daddy  John  was  detailed  to  take  him  his  meals, 
and  the  doctor  dressed  his  wounds  and  tried  to  find 
the  cause  of  his  murderous  outburst.  But  Leff  was 
obdurate.  He  would  express  no  regret  for  his  ac 
tion,  and  would  give  no  reason  for  it.  Once  when 
the  questioner  asked  him  if  he  hated  David,  he  said 

282 


The  Mountains 

"Yes."  But  to  the  succeeding,  "Why  did  he?" 
he  offered  no  explanation,  said  he  "  didn't  know 
why." 

"  Hate  never  came  without  a  reason,"  said  the 
physician,  curious  and  puzzled.  "  Has  David 
wronged  you  in  any  way?  " 

"  What's  that  to  you  ?  "  answered  the  farm  boy. 
"  I  can  hate  him  if  I  like,  can't  I  ?  " 

"  Not  in  my  train." 

"  Well  there  are  other  trains  where  the  men 
aren't  all  fools,  and  the  women- 
He  stopped.  The  doctor's  eye  held  him  with  a 
warning  gleam. 

"  I  don't  know  what's  the  matter  with  that  boy," 
he  said  afterwards  in  the  evening  conference.  "  I 
can't  get  at  him." 

"  Sun  mad,"  Daddy  John  insisted. 

Courant  gave  a  grunt  that  conveyed  disdain  of 
a  question  of  such  small  import. 

David  couldn't  account  for  it  at  all. 

Susan  said  nothing. 

At  Green  River  the  Oregon  Trail  broke  from  the 
parent  road  and  slanted  off  to  the  northwest.  Here 
the  Oregon  companies  mended  their  wagons  and 
braced  their  yokes  for  the  long  pull  across  the 
broken  teeth  of  mountains  to  Fort  Hall,  and  from 
there  onward  to  the  new  country  of  great  rivers 
and  virgin  forests.  A  large  train  was  starting  as 
the  doctor's  wagons  came  down  the  slope.  There 
was  some  talk,  and  a  little  bartering  between  the 
two  companies,  but  time  was  precious,  and  the 

283 


The  Emigrant  Trail 

head  of  the  Oregon  caravan  had  begun  to  roll  out 
when  the  California  party  were  raising  their  tents 
on  the  river  bank. 

It  was  a  sere  and  sterile  prospect.  Drab  hills 
rolled  in  lazy  waves  toward  the  river  where  they 
reared  themselves  into  bolder  forms,  a  line  of  ram 
parts  guarding  the  precious  thread  of  water.  The 
sleek,  greenish  current  ate  at  the  roots  of  lofty 
bluffs,  striped  by  bands  of  umber  and  orange,  and 
topped  with  out-croppings  of  rock  as  though  a 
vanished  race  had  crowned  them  with  now 
crumbling  fortresses.  At  their  feet,  sucking  life 
from  the  stream,  a  fringe  of  alder  and  willows 
decked  the  sallow  landscape  with  a  trimming  of 
green. 

Here  the  doctor's  party  camped  for  the  night, 
rising  in  the  morning  to  find  a  new  defection  in 
their  ranks.  Leff  had  gone.  Nailed  to  the  mess 
chest  was  a  slip  of  paper  on  which  he  had  traced  a 
few  words  announcing  his  happiness  to  be  rid  of 
them,  his  general  dislike  of  one  and  all,  and  his 
intention  to  catch  up  the  departed  train  and  go  to 
the  Oregon  country.  This  was  just  what  they 
wanted,  the  desired  had  been  accomplished  without 
their  intervention.  But  when  they  discovered  that, 
beside  his  own  saddle  horse,  he  had  taken  David's, 
their  gladness  suffered  a  check.  It  was  a  bad  situ 
ation,  for  it  left  the  young  man  with  but  one  horse, 
the  faithful  Ben.  There  was  nothing  for  it  but  to 
abandon  the  wagon,  and  give  David  the  doctor's 
extra  mount  for  a  pack  animal.  With  silent  pangs 

284 


The  Mountains 

the  student  saw  his  books  thrown  on  the  banks  of 
the  river  while  his  keg  of  whisky,  sugar  and  coffee 
were  stored  among  the  Gillespies'  effects.  Then 
they  started,  a  much  diminished  train — one  wagon, 
a  girl,  and  three  mounted  men. 


285 


CHAPTER    VII 

IT  was  Sunday  afternoon,  and  the  doctor  and  his 
daughter  were  sitting  by  a  group  of  alders  on  the 
banks  of  the  little  river  called  Ham's  Fork.  On 
the  uplands  above,  the  shadows  were  lengthening, 
and  at  intervals  a  light  air  caught  up  swirls  of  dust 
and  carried  them  careening  away  in  staggering 
spirals. 

The  doctor  was  tired  and  lay  stretched  on  the 
ground.  He  looked  bloodless  and  wan,  the  griz 
zled  beard  not  able  to  hide  the  thinness  of  his  face. 
The  healthful  vigor  he  had  found  on  the  prairie  had 
left  him,  each  day's  march  claiming  a  dole  from  his 
hoarded  store  of  strength.  He  knew — no  one  else 
— that  he  had  never  recovered  the  vitality  expended 
at  the  time  of  Bella's  illness.  The  call  then  had 
been  too  strenuous,  the  depleted  reservoir  had  filled 
slowly,  and  now  the  demands  of  unremitting  toil 
were  draining  it  of  what  was  left.  He  said  noth 
ing  of  this,  but  thought  much  in  his  feverish  nights, 
and  in  the  long  afternoons  when  his  knees  felt  weak 
against  the  horse's  sides.  As  the  silence  of  each 
member  of  the  little  train  was  a  veil  over  secret 
trouble,  his  had  hidden  the  darkest,  the  most  sin 
ister. 

Susan,  sitting  beside  him,  watching  him  with  an 
286      • 


The  Mountains 

anxious  eye,  noted  the  languor  of  his  long,  dry 
hands,  the  network  of  lines,  etched  deep  on  the 
loose  skin  of  his  cheeks.  Of  late  she  had  been  shut 
in  with  her  own  preoccupations,  but  never  too  close 
for  the  old  love  and  the  old  habit  to  force  a  way 
through.  She  had  seen  a  lessening  of  energy  and 
spirit,  asked  about  it,  and  received  the  accustomed 
answers  that  came  with  the  quick,  brisk  cheeriness 
that  now  had  to  be  whipped  up.  She  had  never 
seen  his  dauntless  belief  in  life  shaken.  Faith  and 
a  debonair  courage  were  his  message.  They  were 
still  there,  but  the  effort  of  the  unbroken  spirit  to 
maintain  them  against  the  body's  weakness  was 
suddenly  revealed  to  her  and  the  pathos  of  it 
caught  at  her  throat.  She  leaned  forward  and 
passed  her  hand  over  his  hair,  her  eyes  on  his  face 
in  a  long  gaze  of  almost  solemn  tenderness. 

"  You're  worn  out,"  she  said. 

"  Not  a  bit  of  it,"  he  answered  stoutly.  "  You're 
the  most  uncomplimentary  person  I  know.  I  was 
just  thinking  what  a  hardy  pioneer  I'd  become,  and 
that's  the  way  you  dash  me  to  the  ground." 

She  looked  at  the  silvery  meshes  through  which 
her  fingers  were  laced. 

"  It's  quite  white  and  there  were  lots  of  brown 
hairs  left  when  we  started." 

'  That's  the  Emigrant  Trail,"  he  smothered  a 
sigh,  and  his  trouble  found  words :  "  It's  not  for 
old  men,  Missy." 

"Old!"  scornfully;  "you're  fifty-three.  That's 
only  thirty-two  years  older  than  I  am.  When  I'm 


The  Emigrant  Trail 

fifty-three  you'll  be  eighty-five.     Then  we'll  begin 
to  talk  about  your  being  old." 

"  My  little  Susan  fifty-three!"  He  moved  his 
head  so  that  he  could  command  her  face  and  dwell 
upon  its  blended  bloom  of  olive  and  clear  rose, 
''  With  wrinkles  here  and  here,"  an  indicating  fin 
ger  helped  him,  "  and  gray  hairs  all  round  here,  and 
thick  eyebrows,  and — "  he  dropped  the  hand  and  his 
smile  softened  to  reminiscence,  "  It  was  only  yes 
terday  you  were  a  baby,  a  little,  fat,  crowing  thing 
all  creases  and  dimples.  Your  mother  and  I  used 
to  think  everything  about  you  so  wonderful  that  we 
each  secretly  believed — and  we'd  tell  each  other  so 
when  nobody  was  round — that  there  had  been 
other  babies  in  the  world,  but  never  before  one  like 
ours.  ,  I  don't  know  but  what  I  think  that  yet." 

"  Silly  old  doctor-man !  "  she  murmured. 

"  And  now  my  baby's  a  woman  with  all  of  life 
before  her.  From  where  you  are  it  seems  as  if  it 
was  never  going  to  end,  but  when  you  get  where 
I  am  and  begin  to  look  back,  you  see  that  it's  just 
a  little  journey  over  before  you've  got  used  to  the 
road  and  struck  your  gait.  We  ought  to  have  more 
time.  The  first  half's  just  learning  and  the  second's 
where  we  put  the  learning  into  practice.  And 
we're  busy  over  that  when  we  have  to  go.  It's  too 
short." 

"  Our  life's  going  to  be  long.  Out  in  California 
we're  going  to  come  into  a  sort  of  second  child 
hood,  be  perennials  like  those  larkspurs  I  had  in  the 
garden  at  home." 

288 


The  Mountains 

They  were  silent,  thinking  of  the  garden  behind 
the  old  house  in  Rochester  with  walks  outlined  by 
shells  and  edged  by  long  flower  beds.  The  girl 
looked  back  on  it  with  a  detached  interest  as  an 
unregretted  feature  of  a  past  existence  in  which  she 
had  once  played  her  part  and  that  was  cut  from  the 
present  by  a  chasm  never  to  be  bridged.  The  man 
held  it  cherishingly  as  one  of  many  lovely  memories 
that  stretched  from  this  river  bank  in  a  strange 
land  back  through  the  years,  a  link  in  the  long 
chain. 

"  Wasn't  it  pretty !  "  she  said  dreamily,  "  with 
the  line  of  hollyhocks  against  the  red  brick  wall, 
and  the  big,  bushy  pine  tree  in  the  corner.  Every 
thing  was  bright  except  that  tree." 

His  eyes  narrowed  in  wistful  retrospect : 

"  It  was  as  if  all  the  shadows  in  the  garden  had 
concentrated  there — huddled  together  in  one  place 
so  that  the  rest  could  be  full  of  color  and  sunshine. 
And  when  Daddy  John  and  I  wanted  to  cut  it  down 
you  wouldn't  let  us,  cried  and  stamped,  and  so,  of 
course,  we  gave  it  up.  I  actually  believe  you  had 
a  sentiment  about  that  tree." 

"  I  suppose  I  had,  though  I  don't  know  exactly 
what  you  mean  by  a  sentiment.  I  loved  it  because 
I'd  once  had  such  a  perfect  time  up  there  among 
the  branches.  The  top  had  been  cut  off  and  a  ring 
of  boughs  was  left  round  the  place,  and  it  made 
the  most  comfortable  seat,  almost  like  a  cradle. 
One  day  you  went  to  New  York  and  when  you 
came  back  you  brought  me  a  box  of  candy.  Do 

289 


The  Emigrant  Trail 

you  remember  it — burnt  almonds  and  chocolate 
drops  with  a  dog  painted  on  the  cover?  Well,  I 
wanted  to  get  them  at  their  very  best,  enjoy  them 
as  much  as  I  could,  so  I  climbed  to  the  seat  in  the 
top  of  the  pine  and  ate  them  there.  I  can  remem 
ber  distinctly  how  lovely  it  was.  They  tasted  bet 
ter  than  any  candies  I've  ever  had  before  or  since, 
and  I  leaned  back  on  the  boughs,  rocking  and  eat 
ing  and  looking  at  the  clouds  and  feeling  the  wind 
swaying  the  trunk.  I  can  shut  my  eyes  and  feel 
again  the  sense  of  being  entirely  happy,  sort  of 
limp  and  forgetful  and  so  contented.  I  don't  know 
whether  it  was  only  the  candies,  or  a  combination 
of  things  that  were  just  right  that  day  and  never 
combined  the  same  way  again.  For  I  tried  it  often 
afterwards,  with  cake  and  fruit  tart  and  other  can 
dies,  but  it  was  no  good.  But  I  couldn't  have  the 
tree  cut  down,  for  there  was  always  a  hope  that  I 
might  get  the  combination  right  and  have  that  per 
fectly  delightful  time  once  more." 

The  doctor's  laughter  echoed  between  the  banks, 
and  hers  fell  in  with  it,  though  she  had  told  her 
story  with  the  utmost  sedateness. 

"  Was  there  ever  such  a  materialist  ? "  he 
chuckled.  "  It  all  rose  from  a  box  of  New  York 
candy,  and  I  thought  it  was  sentiment.  Twenty- 
one  years  old  and  the  same  baby,  only  not  quite  so 
fat." 

"  Well,  it  was  the  truth,"  she  said  defensively. 
"  I  suppose  if  I'd  left  the  candy  out  it  would  have 
sounded  better." 

290 


The  Mountains 

"  Don't  leave  the  candy  out.  It  was  the  candy 
and  the  truth  that  made  it  all  Susan's." 

She  picked  up  a  stone  and  threw  it  in  the  river, 
then  as  she  watched  its  splash :  "  Doesn't  it  seem 
long  ago  when  we  were  in  Rochester?" 

"  We  left  there  in  April  and  this  is  June." 

"  Yes,  a  short  time  in  weeks,  but  some  way  or 
other  it  seems  like  ages.  When  I  think  of  it  I  feel 
as  if  it  was  at  the  other  side  of  the  world,  and  I'd 
grown  years  and  years  older  since  we  left.  If  I 
go  on  this  way  I'll  be  fully  fifty-three  when  we  get 
to  California." 

"  What's  made  you  feel  so  old?  " 

"  I  don't  exactly  know.  I  don't  think  it's  because 
we've  gone  over  so  much  space,  but  that  has  some 
thing  to  do  with  it.  It  seems  as  if  the  change  was 
more  in  me." 

"  How  have  you  changed  ?  " 

She  gathered  up  the  loose  stones  near  her  and 
dropped  them  from  palm  to  palm,  frowning  a  little 
in  an  effort  to  find  words  to  clothe  her  vague 
thought. 

"  I  don't  know  that  either,  or  I  can't  express  it. 
I  liked  things  there  that  I  don't  care  for  any  more. 
They  were  such  babyish  things  and  amounted  to 
nothing,  but  they  seemed  important  then.  Now 
nothing  seems  important  but  things  that  are — the 
things  that  would  be  on  a  desert  island.  And  in 
getting  to  think  that  way,  in  getting  so  far  from 
what  you  once  were,  a  person  seems  to  squeeze  a 
good  many  years  into  a  few  weeks."  She  looked 

291 


The  Emigrant  Trail 

sideways  at  him,  the  stones  dropping  from  a  slant 
ing  palm.     "  Do  you  understand  me?" 

He  nodded : 

"  '  When  I  was  a  child  I  thought  as  a  child — now 
I  have  put  away  childish  things.'  Is  that  it?  " 

"  Yes,  exactly." 

"  Then  you  wouldn't  like  to  go  back  to  the  old 
life?" 

She  scattered  the  stones  with  an  impatient  ges 
ture: 

"  I  couldn't.  I'd  hate  it.  I  wouldn't  squeeze 
back  into  the  same  shape.  I'd  be  all  cramped  and 
crowded  up.  You  see  every  day  out  here  I've  been 
growing  wider  and  wider,"  she  stretched  her  arms 
to  their  length,  "  widening  out  to  fit  these  huge, 
enormous  places." 

"  The  new  life  will  be  wide  enough  for  you. 
You'll  grow  like  a  tree,  a  beautiful,  tall,  straight 
tree  that  has  plenty  of  room  for  its  branches  to 
spread  and  plenty  of  sun  and  air  to  nourish  it. 
There'll  be  no  crowding  or  cramping  out  there. 
It's  good  to  know  you'll  be  happy  in  California. 
In  the  beginning  I  had  fears." 

She  picked  up  a  stone  and  with  its  pointed  edge 
drew  lines  on  the  dust  which  seemed  to  interest  her, 
for  she  followed  them  with  intent  eyes,  not  answer 
ing.  He  waited  for  a  moment,  then  said  with  an 
undernote  of  pleading  in  his  voice,  "  You  think  you 
will  be  happy,  dearie  ?  " 

"  I— I— don't— know,"  she  stammered.  "  No 
body  can  tell.  We're  not  there  yet." 

292 


The  Mountains 

"  I  can  tell."  He  raised  himself  on  his-  elbow  to 
watch  her  face.  She  knew  that  he  expected  to  see 
the  maiden's  bashful  happiness  upon  it,  and  the  dif 
ference  between  his  fond  imaginings  and  the  actual 
facts  sickened  her  with  an  intolerable  sense  of  de 
ception.  She  could  never  tell  him,  never  strike  out 
of  him  his  glad  conviction  of  her  contentment. 

:<  We're  going  back  to  the  Golden  Age,  you  and 
I,  and  David.  We'll  live  as  we  want,  not  the  way 
other  people  want  us  to.  When  we  get  to  Cali 
fornia  we'll  build  a  house  somewhere  by  a  river 
and  we'll  plant  our  seeds  and  have  vines  growing 
over  it  and  a  garden  in  the  front,  and  Daddy  John 
will  break  Julia's  spirit  and  harness  her  to  the 
plow.  Then  when  the  house  gets  too  small- 
houses  have  a  way  of  doing  that — I'll  build  a  little 
cabin  by  the  edge  of  the  river,  and  you  and  David 
will  have  the  house  to  yourselves  where  the  old, 
white-headed  doctor  won't  be  in  the  way." 

He  smiled  for  the  joy  of  his  picture,  and  she 
turned  her  head  from  him,  seeing  the  prospect 
through  clouded  eyes. 

"  You'll  never  go  out  of  my  house,"  she  said  in 
a  low  voice. 

"  Other  spirits  will  come  into  it  and  fill  it  up." 

A  wish  that  anything  might  stop  the  slow  ad 
vance  to  this  roseate  future  choked  her.  She  sat 
with  averted  face  wrestling  with  her  sick  distaste, 
and  heard  him  say: 

"  You  don't  know  how  happy  you're  going  to  be, 
my  little  Missy." 

293 


The  Emigrant  Trail 

She  could  find  no  answer,  and  he  went  on :  "  You 
have  everything  for  it,  health  and  youth  and  a  pure 
heart  and  David  for  your  mate." 

She  had  to  speak  now  and  said  with  urgence, 
trying  to  encourage  herself,  since  no  one  else  could 
do  it  for  her, 

"  But  that's  all  in  the  future,  a  long  time  from 
now." 

"  Not  so  very  long.  We  ought  to  be  in  Califor 
nia  in  five  or  six  weeks." 

To  have  the  dreaded  reality  suddenly  brought  so 
close,  set  at  the  limit  of  a  few  short  weeks,  grimly 
waiting  at  a  definite  point  in  the  distance,  made  her 
repugnance  break  loose  in  alarmed  words. 

"  Longer  than  that,"  she  cried.  "  The  desert's 
the  hardest  place,  and  we'll  go  slow,  very  slow, 
there." 

"  You  sound  as  if  you  wanted  to  go  slow,"  he 
answered,  his  smile  indulgently  quizzical,  as  com 
pletely  shut  away  from  her,  in  his  man's  ignorance, 
as  though  no  bond  of  love  and  blood  held  them 
together. 

"  No,  no,  of  course  not,"  she  faltered.  "  But  I'm 
not  at  all  sure  we'll  get  through  it  so  easily.  I'm 
making  allowance  for  delays.  There  are  always 
delays." 

'  Yes,  there  may  be  delays,  but  we'll  hope  to  be 
one  of  the  lucky  trains  and  get  through  on  time." 

She  swallowed  dryly,  her  heart  gone  down  too 
far  to  be  plucked  up  by  futile  contradition.  He 
mused  a  moment,  seeking  the  best  method  of 

294 


The  Mountains 

broaching  a  subject  that  had  been  growing  in  his 
mind  for  the  past  week.  Frankness  seemed  the 
most  simple,  and  he  said : 

"  I've  something  to  suggest  to  you.  I've  been 
thinking  of  it  since  we  left  the  Pass.  Bridger  is  a 
large  post.  They  say  there  are  trains  there  from 
all  over  the  West  and  people  of  all  sorts,  and  quite 
often  there  are  missionaries." 

"  Missionaries  ?"  in  a  faint  voice. 

"  Yes,  coming  in  and  going  out  to  the  tribes  of 
the  Northwest.  Suppose  we  found  one  there  when 
we  arrived?  " 

He  stopped,  watching  her. 

"Well?"  her  eyes  slanted  sideways  in  a  fixity 
of  attention. 

"  Would  you  marry  David  ?  Then  we  could  all 
go  on  together." 

Her  breath  left  her  and  she  turned  a  frightened 
face  on  him. 

"Why?"  she  gasped.     "What  for?" 

He  laid  his  hand  on  hers  and  said  quietly : 

"  Because,  as  you  say,  the  hardest  part  of  the 
journey  is  yet  to  come,  and  I  am — well — not  a 
strong  man  any  more.  The  trip  hasn't  done  for  me 
what  I  hoped.  If  by  some  mischance — if  anything 
should  happen  to  me — then  I'd  know  you'd  be  taken 
care  of,  protected  and  watched  over  by  some  one 
who  could  be  trusted,  whose  right  it  was  to  do 
that/' 

"  Oh,  no.  Oh,  no,"  she  cried  in  a  piercing  note 
of  protest.  "  I  couldn't,  I  couldn't." 

295 


The  Emigrant  Trail 

She  made  as  if  to  rise,  then  sank  back,  drawn 
down  by  his  grasping  hand.  He  thought  her  re 
luctance  natural,  a  girl's  shrinking  at  the  sudden  in 
trusion  of  marriage  into  the  pretty  comedy  of 
courtship. 

"  Susan,  I  would  like  it,"  he  pleaded. 

"  No,"  she  tried  to  pull  her  hand  away,  as  if 
wishing  to  draw  every  particle  of  self  together  and 
shut  it  all  within  her  own  protecting  shell. 

"Why  not?" 

"  It's — it's — I  don't  want  to  be  married  out  here 
in  the  wilds.  I  want  to  wait  and  marry  as  other 
girls  do,  and  have  a  real  wedding  and  a  house  to 
go  to.  I  should  hate  it.  I  couldn't.  It's  like  a 
squaw.  You  oughtn't  to  ask  it." 

Her  terror  lent  her  an  unaccustomed  subtlety. 
She  eluded  the  main  issue,  seizing  on  objections 
that  did  not  betray  her,  but  that  were  reasonable, 
what  might  have  been  expected  by  the  most  unsus 
picious  of  men : 

"  And  as  for  your  being  afraid  of  falling  sick  in 
these  dreadful  places,  isn't  that  all  the  more  reason 
why  I  should  be  free  to  give  all  my  time  and 
thought  to  you?  If  you  don't  feel  so  strong,  then 
marrying  is  the  last  thing  I'd  think  of  doing.  I'm 
going  to  be  with  you  all  the  time,  closer  than  I  ever 
was  before.  No  man's  going  to  come  between  us. 
Marry  David  and  push  you  off  into  the  background 
when  you're  not  well  and  want  me  most — that's 
perfectly  ridiculous." 

She  meant  all  she  said.  It  was  the  truth,  but  it 
296 


The  Mountains 

was  the  truth  reinforced,  given  a  fourfold  strength 
by  her  own  unwillingness.  The  thought  that  she 
had  successfully  defeated  him,  pushed  the  marriage 
away  into  an  indefinite  future,  relieved  her  so  that 
the  dread  usually  evoked  by  his  ill  health  was  swept 
aside.  She  turned  on  him  a  face,  once  again  bright, 
all  clouds  withdrawn,  softened  into  dimpling  reas 
surance. 

"What  an  idea!"  she  said.  "Men  have  no 
sense." 

"  Very  well,  spoiled  girl.  I  suppose  we'll  have 
to  put  it  off  till  we  get  to  California." 

She  dropped  back  full  length  on  the  ground,  and 
in  the  expansion  of  her  relief  laid  her  cheek  against 
the  hand  that  clasped  hers. 

"And  until  we  get  the  house  built,"  she  cried, 
beginning  to  laugh. 

"  And  the  garden  laid  out  and  planted,  I  sup 
pose?" 

"  Of  course.  And  the  vines  growing  over  the 
front  porch." 

"  Why  not  over  the  second  story  ?  We'll  have  a 
second  story  by  that  time." 

"  Over  the  whole  house,  up  to  the  chimneys." 

They  both  laughed,  a  cheerful  bass  and  a  gay 
treble,  sweeping  out  across  the  unquiet  water. 

"  It's  going  to  be  the  Golden  Age,"  she  said,  in 
the  joy  of  her  respite  pressing  her  lips  on  the  hand 
she  held.  "  A  cottage  covered  with  vines  to  the 
roof  and  you  and  I  and  Daddy  John  inside  it." 

"  And  David,  don't  forget  David." 
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The  Emigrant  Trail 

"  Of  course,  David,"  she  assented  lightly,  for 
David's  occupancy  was  removed  to  a  comfortable 
distance. 

After  supper  she  and  David  climbed  to  the  top 
of  the  bank  to  see  the  sunset.  The  breeze  had 
dropped,  the  dust  devils  died  with  it.  The  silence 
of  evening  lay  like  a  cool  hand  on  the  heated  earth. 
Dusk  was  softening  the  hard,  bright  colors,  wiping 
out  the  sharpness  of  stretching  shadows  the  baked 
reflection  of  sun  on  clay.  The  West  blazed  above 
the  mountains,  but  the  rest  of  the  sky  was  a  thick, 
pure  blue.  Against  it  to  the  South,  a  single  peak 
rose,  snow-enameled  on  a  turquoise  background. 

Susan  felt  at  peace  with  the  moment  and  her  own 
soul.  She  radiated  the  good  humor  of  one  who 
has  faced  peril  and  escaped.  Having  postponed  the 
event  that  was  to  make  her  David's  forever,  she  felt 
bound  to  offer  recompense.  Her  conscience  went 
through  one  of  those  processes  by  which  the  con 
sciences  of  women  seek  ease  through  atonement, 
prompting  them  to  actions  of  a  baleful  kindliness. 
Contrition  made  her  tender  to  the  man  she  did  not 
love.  The  thought  that  she  had  been  unfair  added 
a  cruel  sweetness  to  her  manner. 

He  lay  on  the  edge  of  the  bluff  beside  her,  not 
saying  much,  for  it  was  happiness  to  feel  her  within 
touch  of  his  hand,  amiable  and  gentle  as  she  had 
been  of  late.  It  would  have  taken  an  eye  shrewder 
than  David's  to  have  seen  into  the  secret  springs 
of  her  conduct.  He  only  knew  that  she  had  been 
kinder,  friendlier,  less  withdrawn  into  the  sanctu- 

208 


The  Mountains 

ary  of  her  virgin  coldness,  round  which  in  the  be 
ginning  he  had  hovered.  His  heart  was  high, 
swelled  by  the  promise  of  her  beaming  looks  and 
ready  smiles.  At  last,  in  this  drama  of  slow  win 
ning  she  was  drawing  closer,  shyly  melting,  her 
whims  and  perversities  mellowing  to  the  rich,  sweet 
yielding  of  the  ultimate  surrender. 

"  We  ought  to  be  at  Fort  Bridger  now  in  a  few 
days,"  he  said.  "  Courant  says  if  all  goes  well  we 
can  make  it  by  Thursday  and  of  course  he  knows." 

"  Courant !  "  she  exclaimed  with  the  familiar  note 
of  scorn.  "  He  knows  a  little  of  everything,  doesn't 
he?" 

"Why  don't  you  like  him,  Missy?  He's  a  fine 
man  for  the  trail." 

"  Yes,  I  dare  say  he  is.  But  that's  not  every 
thing." 

"Why  don't  you  like  him?  Come,  tell  the 
truth." 

They  had  spoken  before  of  her  dislike  of  Cou 
rant.  She  had  revealed  it  more  frankly  to  David 
than  to  anyone  else.  It  was  one  of  the  subjects  over 
which  she  could  become  animated  in  the  weariest 
hour.  She  liked  to  talk  to  her  betrothed  about  it, 
to  impress  it  upon  him,  warming  to  an  eloquence 
that  allayed  her  own  unrest. 

"  I  don't  know  why  I  don't  like  him.  You  can't 
always  tell  why  you  like  or  dislike  a  person.  It's 
just  something  that  comes  and  you  don't  know 
why." 

"  But  it  seems  so  childish  and  unfair.  I  don't 
299 


The  Emigrant  Trail 

like  my  girl  to  be  unfair.  Has  he  ever  done  any 
thing  or  said  anything  to  you  that  offended 
you?" 

She  gave  a  petulant  movement :  "  No,  but  he 
thinks  so  much  of  himself,  and  he's  hard  and  has 
no  feeling,  and —  Oh,  I  don't  know — it's  just  that 
I  don't  like  him." 

David  laughed: 

"  It's  all  prejudice.  You  can't  give  any  real 
reason." 

"  Of  course  I  can't.  Those  things  don't  always 
have  reasons.  You're  always  asking  for  reasons 
and  I  never  have  any  to  give  you." 

"  I'll  have  to  teach  you  to  have  them." 

She  looked  slantwise  at  him  smiling.  "  I'm  afraid 
that  will  be  a  great  undertaking.  I'm  very  stupid 
about  learning  things.  You  ask  father  and  Daddy 
John  what  a  terrible  task  it  was  getting  me  edu 
cated.  The  only  person  that  didn't  bother  about 
it  was  this  one  " — she  laid  a  finger  on  her  chest — 
"  She  never  cared  in  the  least." 

"  Well  I'll  begin  a  second  education.  When  we 
get  settled  I'll  teach  you  to  reason." 

"  Begin  now."  She  folded  her  hands  demurely 
in  her  lap  and  lifting  her  head  back  laughed: 
"  Here  I  am  waiting  to  learn." 

"  No.  We  want  more  time.  I'll  wait  till  we're 
married." 

Her  laughter  diminished  to  a  smile  that  lay  on 
her  lips,  looking  stiff  and  uncomfortable  below  the 
fixity  of  her  eyes. 

300 


The  Mountains 

"  That's  such  a  long  way  off,"  she  said  faintly. 

"  Not  so  very  long." 

"  Oh,  California's  hundreds  of  miles  away  yet. 
And  then  when  we  get  there  we've  got  to  find  a 
place  to  settle,  and  till  the  land,  and  lay  out  the 
garden  and  build  a  house,  quite  a  nice  house;  I 
don't  want  to  live  in  a  cabin.  Father  and  I  have 
just  been  talking  about  it.  Why  it's  months  and 
months  off  yet." 

He  did  not  answer.  She  had  spoken  this  way 
to  him  before,  wafting  the  subject  away  with  eva 
sive  words.  After  a  pause  he  said  slowly :  "  Why 
need  we  wait  so  long?  " 

"  We  must.  I'm  not  going  to  begin  my  married 
life  the  way  the  emigrant  women  do.  I  want  to 
live  decently  and  be  comfortable." 

He  broke  a  sprig  off  a  sage  bush  and  began  to 
pluck  it  apart.  She  had  receded  to  her  defenses 
and  peeped  nervously  at  him  from  behind  them. 

"  Fort  Bridger,"  he  said,  his  eyes  on  the  twig, 
"  is  a  big  place,  a  sort  of  rendezvous  for  all  kinds 
of  people." 

She  stared  at  him,  her  face  alert  with  apprehen 
sion,  ready  to  dart  into  her  citadel  and  lower  the 
drawbridge. 

"  Sometimes  there  are  missionaries  stopping 
there." 

"  Missionaries  ?  "  she  exclaimed  in  a  high  key. 
"  I  hate  missionaries !  " 

This  was  a  surprising  statement.  David  knew 
the  doctor  to  be  a  supporter  and  believer  in  the  In- 

301 


The  Emigrant  Trail 

dian  missions,  and  had  often  heard  his  daughter 
acquiesce  in  his  opinions. 

"  Why  do  you  hate  them  ?  " 

"  I  don't  know.  There's  another  thing  you  want 
a  reason  for.  It's  getting  cold  up  here — let's  go 
down  by  the  fire." 

She  gathered  herself  together  to  rise,  but  he 
turned  quickly  upon  her,  and  his  face,  while  it  made 
her  shrink,  also  arrested  her.  She  had  come  to 
dread  that  expression,  persuasion  hardened  into 
desperate  pleading.  It  woke  in  her  a  shocked  re 
pugnance,  as  though  something  had  been  revealed 
to  her  that  she  had  no  right  to  see.  She  felt  shame 
for  him,  that  he  must  beg  where  a  man  should  con 
quer  and  subdue. 

"  Wait  a  moment,"  he  said.  "  Why  can't  one  of 
those  missionaries  marry  us  there  ?  " 

She  had  scrambled  to  her  knees,  and  snatched  at 
her  skirt  preparatory  to  the  jump  to  her  feet. 

"  No,"  she  said  vehemently.  "  No.  What's  the 
matter  with  you  all  talking  about  marriages  and  mis 
sionaries  when  we're  in  the  middle  of  the  wilds  ?  " 

"  Susan,"  he  cried,  catching  at  her  dress,  "  just 
listen  a  moment.  I  could  take  care  of  you  then, 
take  care  of  you  properly.  You'd  be  my  own,  to 
look  after  and  work  for.  It's  seemed  to  me  lately 
you  loved  me  enough.  I  wouldn't  have  suggested 
such  a  thing  if  you  were  as  you  were  in  the  begin 
ning.  But  you  seem  to  care  now.  You  seem  as  if 
— as  if — it  wouldn't  be  so  hard  for  you  to  live  with 
me  and  let  me  love  you." 

302 


The  Mountains 

She  jerked  her  skirt  away  and  leaped  to  her  feet 
crying  again,  "  No,  David,  no.  Not  for  a  minute." 

He  rose  too,  very  pale,  the  piece  of  sage  in  his 
hand  shaking.  They  looked  at  each  other,  the  yel 
low  light  clear  on  both  faces.  Hers  was  hard  and 
combative,  as  if  his  suggestion  had  outraged  her 
and  she  was  ready  to  fight  it.  Its  expression  sent 
a  shaft  of  terror  to  his  soul,  for  with  all  his  unself 
ishness  he  was  selfish  in  his  man's  longing  for  her, 
hungered  for  her  till  his  hunger  had  made  him 
blind.  Now  in  a  flash  of  clairvoyance  he  saw 
truly,  and  feeling  the  joy  of  life  slipping  from  him, 
faltered: 

"  Have  I  made  a  mistake?    Don't  you  care?  " 

It  was  her  opportunity,  she  was  master  of  her 
fate.  But  her  promise  was  still  a  thing  that  held, 
the  moment  had  not  come  when  she  saw  nothing 
but  her  own  desire,  and  to  gain  it  would  have  sacri 
ficed  all  that  stood  between.  His  stricken  look, 
his  expression  of  nerving  himself  for  a  blow, 
pierced  her,  and  her  words  rushed  out  in  a  burst 
of  contrition. 

"  Of  course,  of  course,  I  do.  Don't  doubt  me. 
Don't.  But —  Oh,  David,  don't  torment  me.  Don't 
ask  anything  like  that  now.  I  can't,  I  can't.  I'm 
not  ready — not  yet." 

Her  voice  broke  and  she  put  her  hand  to  her 
mouth  to  hide  its  trembling.  Over  it,  her  eyes,  sud 
denly  brimming  with  tears,  looked  imploringly  into 
his. 

It  was  a  heart-tearing  sight  to  the  lover.  He 
303 


The  Emigrant  Trail 

forgot  himself  and,  without  knowing  what  he  did, 
opened  his  arms  to  inclose  her  in  an  embrace  of  pity 
and  remorse. 

"  Oh,  dearest,  I'll  never  ask  it  till  you're  willing 
to  come  to  me,"  he  cried,  and  saw  her  back  away, 
with  upheld  shoulders  raised  in  defense  against  his 
hands. 

"  I  won't  touch  you,"  he  said,  quickly  dropping 
his  arms.  "  Don't  draw  back  from  me.  If  you 
don't  want  it  I'll  never  lay  a  finger  on  you." 

The  rigidity  of  her  attitude  relaxed.  She  turned 
away  her  head  and  wiped  her  tears  on  the  end  of 
the  kerchief  knotted  round  her  neck.  He  stood 
watching  her,  struggling  with  passion  and  forebod 
ing,  reassured  and  yet  with  the  memory  of  the  see 
ing  moment,  chill  at  his  heart. 

Presently  she  shot  a  timid  glance  at  him,  and  met 
his  eyes  resting  questioningly  upon  her.  Her  face 
was  tear  stained,  a  slight,  frightened  smile  on  the 
lips. 

"  I'm  sorry,"  she  whispered. 

"  Susan,  do  you  truly  care  for  me  ?  " 

"  Yes,"  she  said,  looking  down.  "  Yes — but — 
let  me  wait  a  little  while  longer." 

"  As  long  as  you  like.  I'll  never  ask  you  to 
marry  me  till  you  say  you're  willing." 

She  held  out  her  hand  shyly,  as  if  fearing  a  re 
pulse.  He  took  it,  and  feeling  it  relinquished  to  his 
with  trust  and  confidence,  swore  that  never  again 
would  he  disturb  her,  never  demand  of  her  till  she 
was  ready  to  give. 

304 


CHAPTER    VIII 

FORT  BRIDGER  was  like  a  giant  magnet  perpetu 
ally  revolving  and  sweeping  the  western  half  of  the 
country  with  its  rays.  They  wheeled  from  the 
west  across  the  north  over  the  east  and  down  to  the 
south.  Ox  teams,  prairie  schooners,  pack  trains, 
horsemen  came  to  it  from  the  barren  lands  that 
guarded  the  gates  of  California,  from  the  tumultu 
ous  rivers  and  fragrant  forests  of  the  Oregon  coun 
try,  from  the  trapper's  paths  and  the  thin,  icy 
streams  of  the  Rockies,  from  the  plains  where  the 
Platte  sung  round  its  sand  bars,  from  the  sun 
drenched  Spanish  deserts.  All  roads  led  to  it,  and 
down  each  one  came  the  slow  coil  of  the  long  trains 
and  the  pacing  files  of  mounted  men.  Under  its 
walls  they  rested  and  repaired  their  waste,  ere  they 
took  the  trail  again  intent  on  the  nation's  work  of 
conquest. 

The  fort's  centripetal  attraction  had  caught  the 
doctor's  party,  and  was  drawing  it  to  the  focus. 
They  reckoned  the  days  on  their  fingers  and  pressed 
forward  with  a  feverish  hurry.  They  were  like 
wayworn  mariners  who  sight  the  lights  of  a  port. 
Dead  desires,  revived,  blew  into  a  glow  extinguished 
vanities.  They  looked  at  each  other,  and  for  the 
first  time  realized  how  ragged  and  unkempt  they 

305 


The  Emigrant  Trail 

were,  then  dragged  out  best  clothes  from  the  bot 
tom  of  their  chests  and  hung  their  looking-glasses 
to  the  limbs  of  trees.  They  were  coming  to  the 
surface  after  a  period  of  submersion. 

Susan  fastened  her  mirror  to  the  twig  on  an 
alder  trunk  and  ransacked  her  store  of  finery.  It 
yielded  up  a  new  red  merino  bodice,  and  the  occa 
sion  was  great  enough  to  warrant  breaking  into  her 
reserve  of  hairpins.  Then  she  experimented  with 
her  hair,  parted  and  rolled  it  in  the  form  that  had 
been  the  fashion  in  that  long  dead  past — was  it 
twenty  years  ago? — when  she  had  been  a  girl  in 
Rochester.  She  inspected  her  reflected  image  with 
a  fearful  curiosity,  as  if  expecting  to  find  gray 
hairs  and  wrinkles.  It  was  pleasant  to  see  that  she 
looked  the  same — a  trifle  thinner  may  be.  And  as 
she  noted  that  her  cheeks  were  not  as  roundly 
curved,  the  fullness  of  her  throat  had  melted  to  a 
more  muscular,  less  creased  and  creamy  firmness, 
she  felt  a  glow  of  satisfaction.  For  in  those  distant 
days — twenty-five  years  ago  it  must  be — she  had 
worried  because  she  was  a  little  too  fat.  No  one 
could  say  that  now.  She  stole  a  look  over  her 
shoulder  to  make  sure  she  was  not  watched — it 
seemed  an  absurdly  vain  thing  to  do — and  turned 
back  the  neck  of  her  blouse.  The  faintest  rise  of 
collar  bone  showed  under  the  satiny  skin,  fine  as  a 
magnolia  petal,  the  color  of  faintly  tinted  meer 
schaum.  She  ran  her  hand  across  it  and  it  was 
smooth  as  curds  yielding  with  an  elastic  resistance 
over  its  bedding  of  firm  flesh.  The  young  girl's 

306 


The  Mountains 

pride  in  her  beauty  rose,  bringing  with  it  a  sense  of 
surprise.  She  had  thought  it  gone  forever,  and  now 
it  still  held,  the  one  surviving  sensation  that  con 
nected  her  with  that  other  Susan  Gillespie  who  had 
lived  a  half  century  ago  in  Rochester. 

It  was  the  day  after  this  recrudescence  of  old  co 
quetry  that  the  first  tragedy  of  the  trail,  the  trag 
edy  that  was  hers  alone,  smote  her. 

The  march  that  morning  had  been  over  a  high 
level  across  which  they  headed  for  a  small  river 
they  would  follow  to  the  Fort.  Early  in  the  after 
noon  they  saw  its  course  traced  in  intricate  em 
broidery  across  the  earth's  leathern  carpet.  The 
road  dropped  into  it,  the  trail  grooved  deep  be 
tween  ramparts  of  clay.  On  the  lip  of  the  descent 
the  wayward  Julia,  maddened  with  thirst,  plunged 
forward,  her  obedient  mates  followed,  and  the 
wagon  went  hurling  down  the  slant,  dust  rising  like 
the  smoke  of  an  explosion.  The  men  struggled  for 
control  and,  seized  by  the  contagion  of  their  excite 
ment,  the  doctor  laid  hold  of  a  wheel.  It  jerked 
him  from  his  feet  and  flung  him  sprawling,  stunned 
by  the  impact,  a  thin  trickle  of  blood  issuing  from 
his  lips.  The  others  saw  nothing,  in  the  tumult  did 
not  hear  Susan's  cry.  When  they  came  back  the  doc 
tor  was  lying  where  he  had  fallen,  and  she  was 
sitting  beside  him  wiping  his  lips  with  the  kerchief 
she  had  torn  from  her  neck.  She  looked  up  at  them 
and  said : 

"  It's  a  hemorrhage." 

Her  face  shocked  them  into  an  understanding  of 


The  Emigrant  Trail 

the  gravity  of  the  accident.  It  was  swept  clean  of 
its  dauntless,  rosy  youth,  had  stiffened  into  an  un- 
elastic  skin  surface,  taut  over  rigid  muscles.  But  her 
eyes  were  loopholes  through  which  anguish  escaped. 
Bending  them  on  her  father  a  hungry  solicitude 
suffused  them,  too  all-pervading  to  be  denied  exit. 
Turned  to  the  men  an  agonized  questioning  took  its 
place.  It  spoke  to  them  like  a  cry,  a  cry  of  weak 
ness,  a  cry  for  succor.  It  was  the  first  admission 
of  their  strength  she  had  ever  made,  the  first  look 
upon  them  which  had  said,  "  You  are  men,  I  am  a 
woman.  Help  me." 

They  carried  the  doctor  to  the  banks  of  the 
stream  and  laid  him  on  a  spread  robe.  He  pro 
tested  that  it  was  nothing,  it  had  happened  before, 
several  times,  Missy  would  remember  it,  last  winter 
in  Rochester?  Her  answering  smile  was  pitiable, 
a  grimace  of  the  lips  that  went  no  farther.  She  felt 
its  failure  and  turned  away  plucking  at  a  weed  near 
her.  Courant  saw  the  trembling  of  her  hand  and 
the  swallowing  movement  of  her  throat,  bared  of 
its  sheltering  kerchief.  She  glanced  up  with  a 
stealthy  side  look,  fearful  that  her  moment  of  weak 
ness  was  spied  upon,  and  saw  him,  the  pity  surging 
from  his  heart  shining  on  his  face  like  a  softening 
light.  She  shrank  from  it,  and,  as  he  made  an 
involuntary  step  toward  her,  warned  him  off  with 
a  quick  gesture.  He  turned  to  the  camp  and  set 
furiously  to  work,  his  hands  shaking  as  he  drove 
in  the  picket  pins,  his  throat  dry.  He  did  not  dare 
to  look  at  her  again.  The  desire  to  snatch  her  in  his 

308 


The  Mountains 

arms,  to  hold  her  close  till  he  crushed  her  in  a 
passion  of  protecting  tenderness,  made  him  fear  to 
look  at  her,  to  hear  her  voice,  to  let  the  air  of  her 
moving  body  touch  him. 

The  next  morning,  while  lifting  the  doctor  into 
the  wagon,  there  was  a  second  hemorrhage.  Even 
the  sick  man  found  it  difficult  to  maintain  his 
cheery  insouciance.  Susan  looked  pinched,  her 
tongue  seemed  hardened  to  the  consistency  of 
leather  that  could  not  flex  for  the  ready  utterance 
of  words.  The  entire  sum  of  her  consciousness 
was  focused  on  her  father.  "  Breakfast?  "  —  with  a 
blank  glance  at  the  speaker — "is  it  breakfast  time?" 
The  men  cooked  for  her  and  brought  her  a  cup  of 
coffee  and  her  plate  of  food.  She  set  them  on  the 
driver's  seat,  and  when  the  doctor,  keeping  his  head 
immovable,  and  turning  smiling  eyes  upon  her,  told 
her  to  eat  she  felt  for  them  like  a  blind  woman. 
It  was  hard  to  swallow  the  coffee,  took  effort  to 
force  it  down  a  channel  that  was  suddenly  narrowed 
to  a  parched,  resistent  tube.  She  would  answer 
no  one,  seemed  to  have  undergone  an  ossifying  of 
all  faculties  turned  to  the  sounds  and  sights  of  life. 
David  remembered  her  state  when  the  doctor  had 
been  ill  on  the  Platte.  But  the  exclusion  of  the 
outer  world  was  then  an  obsession  of  worry,  a  jeal 
ous  distraction,  as  if  she  resented  the  well-being  of 
others  when  hers  were  forced  to  suffer.  This  was 
different.  She  did  not  draw  away  from  him  now. 
She  did  not  seem  to  see  or  hear  him.  Her  glance 
lit  unknowing  on  his  face,  her  hand  lay  in  his, 

309 


The  Emigrant  Trail 

passive  as  a  thing  of  stone.  Sometimes  he  thought 
she  did  not  know  who  he  was. 

"  Can't  we  do  anything  to  cheer  her  or  take  her 
mind  off  it?"  he  said  to  Daddy  John  behind  the 
wagon. 

The  old  man  gave  him  a  glance  of  tolerant  scorn. 

"  You  can't  take  a  person's  mind  off  the  only 
thing  that's  in  it.  She's  got  nothing  inside  her  but 
worry.  She's  filled  up  with  it,  level  to  the  top. 
You  might  as  well  try  and  stop  a  pail  from  over 
flowing  that's  too  full  of  water." 

They  fared  on  for  two  interminable,  broiling  days. 
The  pace  was  of  the  slowest,  for  a  jolt  or  wrench  of 
the  wagon  might  cause  another  hemorrhage.  With 
a  cautious  observance  of  stones  and  chuck  holes 
they  crawled  down  the  road  that  edged  the  river. 
The  sun  was  blinding,  beating  on  the  canvas  hood 
till  the  girl's  face  was  beaded  with  sweat,  and  the 
sick  man's  blankets  were  hot  against  the  intenser 
heat  of  his  body.  Outside  the  world  held  its  breath 
spellbound  in  a  white  dazzle.  The  river  sparkled 
like  a  coat  of  mail,  the  only  unquiet  thing  on  the 
earth's  incandescent  surface.  When  the  afternoon 
declined,  shadows  crept  from  the  opposite  bluffs, 
slanted  across  the  water,  slipped  toward  the  little 
caravan  and  engulfed  it.  Through  the  front  open 
ing  Susan  watched  the  road.  There  was  a  time 
when  each  dust  ridge  showed  a  side  of  bright  blue. 
To  half-shut  eyes  they  were  like  painted  stripes 
weaving  toward  the  distance.  Following  them  to 
where  the  trail  bent  round  a  buttress,  her  glance 

310 


The  Mountains 

brought  up  on  Courant's  mounted  figure.  He 
seemed  the  vanishing  point  of  these  converging 
stripes,  the  object  they  were  striving  toward,  the 
end  they  aimed  for.  Reaching  him  they  ceased  as 
though  they  had  accomplished  their  purpose,  led 
the  woman's  eyes  to  him  as  to  a  symbolical  figure 
that  piloted  the  train  to  succor. 

With  every  hour  weakness  grew  on  the  doctor, 
his  words  were  fewer.  By  the  ending  of  the  first 
day,  he  lay  silent  looking  out  at  the  vista  of  bluffs 
and  river,  his  eyes  shining  in  sunken  orbits.  As 
dusk  fell  Courant  dropped  back  to  the  wagon  and 
asked  Daddy  John  if  the  mules  could  hold  the 
pace  all  night.  Susan  heard  the  whispered  con 
ference,  and  in  a  moment  was  kneeling  on  the  seat, 
her  hand  clutched  like  a  spread  starfish  on  the  old 
man's  shoulder. 

Courant  leaned  from  his  saddle  to  catch  the 
driver's  ear  with  his  lowered  tones.  :<  With  a 
forced  march  we  can  get  there  to-morrow  after 
noon.  The  animals  can  rest  up  and  we  can  make 
him  comfortable  and  maybe  find  a  doctor." 

Her  face,  lifted  to  him,  was  like  a  transparent 
medium  through  which  anxiety  and  hope  that  was 
almost  pain,  shone.  She  hung  on  his  words  and 
breathed  back  quick  agreement.  It  would  have 
been  the  same  if  he  had  suggested  the  impossible, 
if  the  angel  of  the  Lord  had  appeared  and  barred 
the  way  with  a  flaming  sword. 

"  Of  course  they  can  go  all  night.  They  must. 
We'll  walk  and  ride  by  turns.  That'll  lighten  the 


The  Emigrant  Trail 

wagon.  I'll  go  and  get  my  horse,"  and  she  was 
out  and  gone  to  the  back  of  the  train  where  David 
rode  at  the  head  of  the  pack  animals. 

The  night  was  of  a  clear  blue  darkness,  suffused 
with  the  misty  light  of  stars.  Looking  back,  Cou- 
rant  could  see  her  upright  slenderness  topping  the 
horse's  black  shape.  When  the  road  lay  pale  and 
unshaded  behind  her  he  could  decipher  the  curves 
of  her  head  and  shoulders.  Then  he  turned  to  the 
trail  in  front,  and  her  face,  as  it  had  been  when  he 
first  saw  her  and  as  it  was  now,  came  back  to  his 
memory.  Once,  toward  midnight,  he  drew  up  till 
they  reached  him,  her  horse's  muzzle  nosing  soft 
against  his  pony's  flank.  He  could  see  the  gleam 
of  her  eyes,  fastened  on  him,  wide  and  anxious. 

"  Get  into  the  wagon  and  ride,"  he  commanded. 

"Why?     He's  no  worse!     He's  sleeping." 

"  I  was  thinking  of  you.  This  is  too  hard  for 
you.  It'll  wear  you  out." 

"  Oh,  I'm  all  right,"  she  said  with  a  slight 
movement  of  impatience.  "  Don't  worry  about  me. 
Go  on." 

He  returned  to  his  post  and  she  paced  slowly  on, 
keeping  level  with  the  wheels.  It  was  very  still, 
only  the  creaking  of  the  wagon  and  the  hoof  beats 
on  the  dust.  She  kept  her  eyes  on  his  receding 
shape,  watched  it  disappear  in  dark  turns,  then 
emerge  into  faintly  illumined  stretches.  It  moved 
steadily,  without  quickening  of  gait,  a  lonely 
shadow  that  they  followed  through  the  unknown  to 
hope.  Her  glance  hung  to  it,  her  ear  strained  for 

312 


The  Mountains 

the  thud  of  his  pony's  feet,  sight  and  sound  of  him 
came  to  her  like  a  promise  of  help.  He  was  the 
one  strong  human  thing  in  this  place  of  remote 
skies  and  dumb  unfeeling  earth. 

It  was  late  afternoon  when  the  Fort  came  in 
sight.  A  flicker  of  animation  burst  up  in  them  as 
they  saw  the  square  of  its  long,  low  walls,  crown 
ing  an  eminence  above  the  stream.  The  bottom  lay 
wide  at  its  feet,  the  river  slipping  bright  through 
green  meadows  sprinkled  with  an  army  of  cattle. 
In  a  vast,  irregular  circle,  a  wheel  of  life  with  the 
fort  as  its  hub,  spread  an  engirdling  encampment. 
It  was  scattered  over  plain  and  bottom  in  dottings 
of  white,  here  drawn  close  in  clustering  agglomera 
tions,  there  detached  in  separate  spatterings.  Com 
ing  nearer  the  white  spots  grew  to  wagon  hoods 
and  tent  roofs,  and  among  them,  less  easy  to  dis 
cern,  were  the  pointed  summits  of  the  lodges  with 
the  bunched  poles  bristling  through  the  top.  The 
air  was  very  still,  and  into  it  rose  the  straight 
threads  of  smoke  from  countless  fires,  aspiring  up 
wards  in  slender  blue  lines  to  the  bluer  sky.  They 
lifted  and  dispersed  the  smell  of  burning  wood  that 
comes  to  the  wanderer  with  a  message  of  home,  a 
message  that  has  lain  in  his  blood  since  the  first 
man  struck  fire  and  turned  the  dry  heap  of  sticks 
to  an  altar  to  be  forever  fixed  as  the  soul  of  his 
habitation. 

They  camped  in  the  bottom  withdrawn  from  the 
closer  herding  of  tents.  It  was  a  slow  settling,  as 
noiseless  as  might  be,  for  two  at  least  of  their  num- 

313 


The  Emigrant  Trail 

ber  knew  that  the  doctor  was  dying.  That  after 
noon  Daddy  John  and  Courant  had  seen  the  shadow 
of  the  great  change.  Whether  Susan  saw  it  they 
neither  knew.  She  was  full  of  a  determined,  cold, 
energy,  urging  them  at  once  to  go  among  the  camps 
and  search  for  a  doctor.  They  went  in  different 
directions,  leaving  her  sitting  by  her  father's  feet 
at  the  raised  flap  of  the  tent.  Looking  back  through 
the  gathering  dusk  Courant  could  see  her,  a  dark 
shape,  her  body  drooping  in  relaxed  lines.  He 
thought  that  she  knew. 

When  they  came  back  with  the  word  that  there 
was  no  doctor  to  be  found,  darkness  was  closing  in. 
Night  came  with  noises  of  men  and  the  twinkling 
of  innumerable  lights.  The  sky,  pricked  with  stars, 
looked  down  on  an  earth  alive  with  answering 
gleams,  as  though  a  segment  of  its  spark-set  shield 
had  fallen  and  lay  beneath  it,  winking  back  mes 
sages  in  an  aerial  telegraphy.  The  fires  leaped 
high  or  glowed  in  smoldering  mounds,  painting 
the  sides  of  tents,  the  flanks  of  ruminating  animals, 
the  wheels  of  wagons,  the  faces  of  men  and  women. 
Coolness,  rest,  peace  brooded  over  the  great  bivou 
ac,  with  the  guardian  shape  of  the  Fort  above  it 
and  the  murmur  of  the  river  at  its  feet. 

A  lantern,  standing  on  a  box  by  the  doctor's  side, 
lit  the  tent.  Through  the  opening  the  light  from 
the  fire  outside  poured  in,  sending  shadows  scur 
rying  up  the  canvas  walls.  Close  within  call  David 
sat  by  it,  his  chin  on  his  knees,  his  eyes  staring  at 
the  tongues  of  flames  as  they  licked  the  fresh  wood. 

3M 


The  Mountains 

There  was  nothing  now  for  him  to  do.  He  had 
cooked  the  supper,  and  then  to  ease  the  pain  of 
his  unclaimed  sympathies,  cleaned  the  pans,  and 
from  a  neighboring  camp  brought  a  piece  of  deer 
meat  for  Susan.  It  was  the  only  way  he  could 
serve  her,  and  he  sat  disconsolately  looking  now  at 
the  meat  on  a  tin  plate,  then  toward  the  tent  where 
she  and  Daddy  John  were  talking.  He  could  hear 
the  murmur  of  their  voices,  see  their  silhouettes 
moving  on  the  canvas,  gigantic  and  grotesque. 
Presently  she  appeared  in  the  opening,  paused  there 
for  a  last  word,  and  then  came  toward  him. 

"  He  wants  to  speak  to  Daddy  John  for  a  mo 
ment,"  she  said  and  dropping  on  the  ground  beside 
him,  stared  at  the  fire. 

David  looked  at  her  longingly,  but  he  dared  not 
intrude  upon  her  somber  abstraction.  The  voices  in 
the  tent  rose  and  fell.  Once  at  a  louder  phrase 
from  Daddy  John  she  turned  her  head  quickly  and 
listened,  a  sheaf  of  strained  nerves.  The  voices 
dropped  again,  her  eye  came  back  to  the  light  and 
touched  the  young  man's  face.  It  contained  no 
recognition  of  him,  but  he  leaped  at  the  chance, 
making  stammering  proffer  of  such  aid  as  he  could 
give. 

"  I've  got  you  some  supper." 

He  lifted  the  plate,  but  she  shook  her  head. 

"  Let  me  cook  it  for  you,"  he  pleaded.  "  You 
haven't  eaten  anything  since  morning." 

"  I  can't  eat,"  she  said,  and  fell  back  to  her  fire- 
gazing,  slipping  away  from  him  into  the  forbidding 

315 


The  Emigrant  Trail 

dumbness  of  her  thoughts.  He  could  only  watch 
her,  hoping  for  a  word,  an  expressed  wish.  When 
it  came  it  was,  alas !  outside  his  power  to  gratify : 

"If  there  had  only  been  a  doctor  here!  That 
was  what  I  was  hoping  for." 

And  so  when  she  asked  for  the  help  he  yearned 
to  give,  it  was  his  fate  that  he  should  meet  her 
longing  with  a  hopeless  silence. 

When  Daddy  John  emerged  from  the  tent  she 
leaped  to  her  feet. 

"  Well  ?  "  she  said  with  low  eagerness. 

"  Go  back  to  him.  He  wants  you,"  answered 
the  old  man.  "  I've  got  something  to  do  for  him." 

He  made  no  attempt  to  touch  her,  his  words  and 
voice  were  brusque,  yet  David  saw  that  she  re 
sponded,  softened,  showed  the  ragged  wound  of  her 
pain  to  him  as  she  did  to  no  one  else.  It  was  an 
understanding  that  went  beneath  all  externals. 
Words  were  unnecessary  between  them,  heart  spoke 
to  heart. 

She  returned  to  the  tent  and  sunk  on  the  skin 
beside  her  father.  He  smiled  faintly  and  stretched 
a  hand  for  hers,  and  her  fingers  slipped  between 
his,  cool  and  strong  against  the  lifeless  dryness  of 
his  palm.  She  gave  back  his  smile  bravely,  her 
eyes  steadfast.  She  had  no  desire  for  tears,  no 
acuteness  of  sensation.  A  weight  as  heavy  as  the 
world  lay  on  her,  crushing  out  struggle  and  resist 
ance.  She  knew  that  he  was  dying.  When  they 
told  her  there  was  no  doctor  in  the  camp  her  flicker 
ing  hope  had  gone  out.  Now  she  was  prepared  to 

316 


The  Mountains 

sit  by  him  and  wait  with  a  lethargic  patience  be 
yond  which  was  nothing. 

He  pressed  her  hand  and  said :  "  I've  sent  Daddy 
John  on  a  hunt.  Do  you  guess  what  for  ?  " 

She  shook  her  head  feeling  no  curiosity. 

"  The  time  is  short,  Missy." 

The  living's  instinct  to  fight  against  the  acqui 
escence  of  the  dying  prompted  her  to  the  utterance 
of  a  sharp  "  No." 

"  I  want  it  all  arranged  and  settled  before  it's 
too  late.  I  sent  him  to  see  if  there  was  a  mission 
ary  here." 

She  was  leaning  against  the  couch  of  robes,  rest 
ing  on  the  piled  support  of  the  skins.  In  the  pause 
after  his  words  she  slowly  drew  herself  upright, 
and  with  her  mouth  slightly  open  inhaled  a  deep 
breath.  Her  eyes  remained  fixed  on  him,  gleaming 
from  the  shadow  of  her  brows,  and  their  expres 
sion,  combined  with  the  amaze  of  the  dropped  un- 
derlip,  gave  her  a  look  of  wild  attention. 

"  Why  ?  "  she  said.  The  word  came  obstructed 
and  she  repeated  it. 

"  I  want  you  to  marry  David  here  to-night." 

The  doctor's  watch  on  a  box  at  the  bed  head 
ticked  loudly  in  the  silence.  They  looked  at  each 
other  unconscious  of  the  length  of  the  pause. 
Death  on  the  one  hand,  life  pressing  for  its  due 
on  the  other,  were  the  only  facts  they  recognized. 
Hostility,  not  to  the  man  but  to  the  idea,  drove  the 
amazement  from  her  face  and  hardened  its  softness 
to  stone, 

317 


The  Emigrant  Trail 

"Here,  to-night?"  she  said,  her  comprehen 
sion  stimulated  by  an  automatic  repetition  of  his 
words. 

"  Yes.  I  may  not  be  able  to  understand  to 
morrow." 

She  moved  her  head,  her  glance  touching  the 
watch,  the  lantern,  then  dropping  to  the  hand  curled 
round  her  own.  It  seemed  symbolic  of  the  will 
against  which  hers  was  rising  in  combat.  She 
made  an  involuntary  effort  to  withdraw  her  fingers 
but  his  closed  tighter  on  them. 

"  Why  ?  "  she  whispered  again. 

"  Some  one  must  take  care  of  you.  I  can't  leave 
you  alone." 

She  answered  with  stiffened  lips :  "  There's  Dad 
dy  John." 

"  Some  one  closer  than  Daddy  John.  I  want  to 
leave  you  with  David." 

Her  antagonism  rose  higher,  sweeping  over  her 
wretchedness.  Worn  and  strained  she  had  diffi 
culty  to  keep  her  lips  shut  on  it,  to  prevent  herself 
from  crying  out  her  outraged  protests.  All  her 
dormant  womanhood,  stirring  to  wakefulness  in 
the  last  few  weeks,  broke  into  life,  gathering  itself 
in  a  passion  of  revolt,  abhorrent  of  the  indignity, 
ready  to  flare  into  vehement  refusal.  To  the  dim 
eyes  fastened  on  her  she  was  merely  the  girl,  re 
luctant  still.  He  watched  her  down-drooped  face 
and  said: 

"  Then  I  could  go  in  peace.  Am  I  asking  too 
much?" 


The  Mountains 

She  made  a  negative  movement  with  her  head 
and  turned  her  face  away  from  him. 

"  You'll  do  this  for  my  happiness  now  ?  " 

"  Anything,"  she  murmured. 

"  It  will  be  also  for  your  own." 

He  moved  his  free  hand  and  clasped  it  on  the 
mound  made  by  their  locked  fingers.  Through  the 
stillness  a  man's  voice  singing  Zavier's  Canadian 
song  came  to  them.  It  stopped  at  the  girl's  outer 
ear,  but,  like  a  hail  from  a  fading  land,  penetrated 
to  the  man's  brain  and  he  stirred. 

"  Hist!  "  he  said  raising  his  brows,  "  there's  that 
French  song  your  mother  used  to  sing." 

The  distant  voice  rose  to  the  plaintive  burden 
and  he  lay  motionless,  his  eyes  filmed  with  mem 
ories.  As  the  present  dimmed  the  past  grew  clearer. 
His  hold  on  the  moment  relaxed  and  he  slipped 
away  from  it  on  a  tide  of  recollection,  muttering 
the  words. 

The  girl  sat  mute,  her  hand  cold  under  his,  her 
being  passing  in  an  agonized  birth  throe  from  un 
consciousness  to  self-recognition.  Her  will  —  its 
strength  till  now  unguessed  —  rose  resistant,  a 
thing  of  iron.  Love  was  too  strong  in  her  for  open 
opposition,  but  the  instinct  to  fight,  blindly  but  with 
caution,  for  the  right  to  herself  was  stronger. 

His  murmuring  died  into  silence  and  she  looked 
at  him.  His  eyes  were  closed,  the  pressure  of  his 
fingers  loosened.  A  light  sleep  held  him,  and  under 
its  truce  she  softly  withdrew  her  hand,  then  stole 
to  the  tent  door  and  stood  there  a  waiting  mo- 

319 


The  Emigrant  Trail 

ment,  stifling  her  hurried  breathing.  She  saw  David 
lying  by  the  fire,  gazing  into  its  smoldering 
heart.  With  noiseless  feet  she  skirted  the  encircling 
ropes  and  pegs,  and  stood,  out  of  range  of  his 
eye,  on  the  farther  side.  Here  she  stopped,  with 
drawn  from  the  light  that  came  amber  soft  through 
the  canvas  walls,  slipping  into  shadow  when  a 
figure  passed,  searching  the  darkness  with  peering 
eyes. 

Around  her  the  noises  of  the  camp  rose,  less 
sharp  than  an  hour  earlier,  the  night  silence  grad 
ually  hushing  them.  The  sparks  and  shooting 
gleams  of  fires  still  quivered,  imbued  with  a  ten 
acious  life.  She  had  a  momentary  glimpse  of  a 
naked  Indian  boy  flinging  loose  his  blanket,  a 
bronze  statue  glistening  in  a  leap  of  flame.  Nearer 
by  a  woman's  figure  bent  over  a  kettle  black  on 
a  bed  of  embers,  then  a  girl's  fire-touched  form, 
with  raised  arms,  shaking  down  a  snake  of  hair, 
which  broke  and  grew  cloudy  under  her  disturbing 
hands.  A  resounding  smack  sounded  on  a  horse's 
flank,  a  low  ripple  of  laughter  came  tangled  with 
a  child's  querulous  crying,  and  through  the  walls 
of  tents  and  the  thickness  of  smoke  the  notes  of  a 
flute  filtered. 

Her  ear  caught  the  pad  of  a  footstep  on  the 
grass,  and  her  eyes  seized  on  a  shadow  that  grew 
from  dusky  uncertainty  to  a  small,  bent  shape.  She 
waited,  suffocated  with  heartbeats,  then  made  a 
noiseless  pounce  on  it. 

"  Daddy  John,"  she  gasped,  clutching  at  him. 
320 


The  Mountains 

The  old  man  staggered,  almost  taken  off  his  feet. 

"  Is  he  worse  ?  "  he  said. 

"  He's  told  me.    Did  you  find  anyone?  " 

"  Yes — two.  One's  Episcopal — in  a  train  from 
St.  Louis." 

A  sound  came  from  her  that  he  did  not  under 
stand.  She  gripped  at  his  shoulders  as  if  she  were 
drowning.  He  thought  she  was  about  to  swoon 
and  put  his  arm  around  her  saying: 

"  Come  back  to  the  tent.  You're  all  on  a  shake 
as  if  you  had  ague." 

"  I  can't  go  back.  Don't  bring  him.  Don't  bring 
him.  Don't  tell  father.  Not  now.  I  will  later, 
some  other  time.  When  we  get  to  California,  but 
not  now — not  to-night." 

The  sentences  were  cut  apart  by  breaths  that 
broke  from  her  as  if  she  had  been  running.  He  was 
frightened  and  tried  to  draw  her  to  the  light  and 
see  her  face. 

"  Why,  Missy !  "  he  said  with  scared  helplessness, 
"  Why,  Missy!  What's  got  you?  " 

"  Don't  get  the  clergyman.  Tell  him  there  isn't 
any.  Tell  him  you've  looked  all  over.  Tell  him  a 
lie." 

He  guessed  the  trouble  was  something  more  than 
the  grief  of  the  moment,  and  urged  in  a  whisper : 

"  What's  the  matter  now  ?  Go  ahead  and  tell 
me.  I'll  stick  by  you." 

She  bent  her  head  back  to  look  into  his  face. 

"  I  don't  want  to  marry  him  now.  I  can't.  I 
can't.  I  can't" 

321 


The  Emigrant  Trail 

Her  hands  on  his  shoulders  shook  him  with  each 
repetition.  The  force  of  the  words  was  heightened 
by  the  suppressed  tone.  They  should  have  been 
screamed.  In  these  whispered  breaths  they  burst 
from  her  like  blood  from  a  wound.  With  the  last 
one  her  head  bowed  forward  on  his  shoulder  with 
a  movement  of  burrowing  as  though  she  would 
have  crawled  up  and  hidden  under  his  skin,  and 
tears,  the  most  violent  he  had  ever  seen  her  shed, 
broke  from  her.  They  came  in  bursting  sobs,  a 
succession  of  rending  throes  that  she  struggled  to 
stifle,  swaying  and  quivering  under  their  stress. 

He  thought,  of  nothing  now  but  this  new  pain 
added  to  the  hour's  tragedy,  and  stroked  her  shoul 
der  with  a  low  "  Keep  quiet — keep  quiet,"  then 
leaned  his  face  against  her  hair  and  breathed 
through  its  tangles. 

"  It's  all  right,  I'll  do  it.  I'll  say  I  couldn't  find 
anyone.  I'll  lie  for  you,  Missy." 

She  released  him  at  once,  dropped  back  a  step 
and,  lifting  a  distorted  face,  gave  a  nod.  He  passed 
on,  and  she  fell  on  the  grass,  close  to  the  tent  ropes 
and  lay  there,  hidden  by  the  darkness. 

She  did  not  hear  a  step  approaching  from  the 
herded  tents.  Had  she  been  listening  it  would  have 
been  hard  to  discern,  for  the  feet  were  moccasin 
shod,  falling  noiseless  on  the  muffling  grass.  A 
man's  figure  with  fringes  wavering  along  its  out 
line  came  round  the  tent  wall.  The  head  was 
thrust  forward,  the  ear  alert  for  voices.  Faring 
softly  his  foot  struck  her  and  he  bent,  stretching 

322 


The  Mountains 

down  a  feeling  hand.  It  touched  her  shoulder, 
slipped  along  her  side,  and  gripped  at  her  arm. 
"  What's  the  matter  ?  "  came  a  deep  voice,  and  feel 
ing  the  pull  on  her  arm  she  got  to  her  knees  with 
a  strangled  whisper  for  silence.  When  the  light 
fell  across  her,  he  gave  a  smothered  cry,  jerked  her 
to  her  feet  and  thrust  his  hand  into  her  hair,  draw 
ing  her  head  back  till  her  face  was  uplifted  to  his. 

There  was  no  one  to  see,  and  he  let  his  eyes  feed 
full  upon  it,  a  thief  with  the  coveted  treasure  in  his 
hands.  She  seemed  unconscious  of  him,  a  broken 
thing  without  sense  or  volition,  till  a  stir  came  from 
the  tent.  Then  he  felt  her  resist  his  grasp.  She 
put  a  hand  on  his  breast  and  pressed  herself  back 
from  him.  ' 

"Hush,"  she  breathed.  "Daddy  John's  in 
there." 

A  shadow  ran  up  the  canvas  wall,  bobbing  on  it, 
huge  and  wavering.  She  turned  her  head  toward  it, 
the  tears  on  her  cheeks  glazed  by  the  light.  He 
watched  her  with  widened  nostrils  and  immovable 
eyes.  In  the  mutual  suspension  of  action  that  held 
them  he  could  feel  her  heart  beating. 

"  Well  ?  "  came  the  doctor's  voice. 

The  old  servant  answered : 

"  There  weren't  no  parsons  anywhere,  I've  been 
all  over  and  there's  not  one." 

"  Parsons  ?  "  Courant  breathed. 

She  drew  in  the  fingers  spread  on  his  breast  with 
a  clawing  movement  and  emitted  an  inarticulate 
sound  that  meant  "  Hush." 

323 


The  Emigrant  Trail 

"  Not  a  clergyman  or  missionary  among  all  these 
people  ?  " 

"  Not  one." 

"  We  must  wait  till  to-morrow,  then." 

"  Yes — mebbe  there'll  be  one  to-morrow." 

"  I  hope  so." 

Then  silence  fell  and  the  shadow  flickered  again 
on  the  canvas. 

She  made  a  struggle  against  Courant's  hold, 
which  for  a  moment  he  tried  to  resist,  but  her  rin 
gers  plucked  against  his  hand,  and  she  tore  herself 
free  and  ran  to  the  tent  opening.  She  entered 
without  speaking,  threw  herself  at  the  foot  of  the 
couch,  and  laid  her  head  against  her  father's  knees. 

"  Is  that  you,  Missy  ?  "  he  said,  feeling  for  her 
with  a  groping  hand.  "  Daddy  John  couldn't  find 
a  clergyman." 

"  I  know,"  she  answered,  and  lay  without  mov 
ing,  her  face  buried  in  the  folds  of  the  blanket. 

They  said  no  more,  and  Daddy  John  stole  out  of 
the  tent. 

The  next  day  the  doctor  was  too  ill  to  ask  for 
a  clergyman,  to  know  or  to  care.  At  nightfall  he 
died.  The  Emigrant  Trail  had  levied  its  first  trib 
ute  on  them,  taken  its  toll. 


324 


PART  IV 

The  Desert 


CHAPTER   I 

THEY  were  camped  on  the  edges  of  that  harsh 
land  which  lay  between  the  Great  Salt  Lake  and  the 
Sierra.  Behind  them  the  still,  heavy  reach  of  water 
stretched,  reflecting  in  mirrored  clearness  the  moun 
tains  crowding  on  its  southern  rim.  Before  them 
the  sage  reached  out  to  dim  infinities  of  distance. 
The  Humboldt  ran  nearby,  sunk  in  a  stony  bed, 
its  banks  matted  with  growths  of  alder  and  willow. 
The  afternoon  was  drawing  to  the  magical  sunset 
hour.  Susan,  lying  by  the  door  of  her  tent,  could 
see  below  the  growing  western  blaze  the  bowl  of 
the  earth  filling  with  the  first,  liquid  oozings  of 
twilight. 

A  week  ago  they  had  left  the  Fort.  To  her  it 
had  been  a  blank  space  of  time,  upon  which  no  outer 
interest  had  intruded.  She  had  presented  an  in 
vulnerable  surface  to  all  that  went  on  about  her, 
the  men's  care,  the  day's  incidents,  the  setting  of 
the  way.  Cold-eyed  and  dumb  she  had  moved  with 
them,  an  inanimate  idol,  unresponsive  to  the  ob 
servances  of  their  worship,  aloof  from  them  in  som 
ber  uncommunicated  musings. 

The  men  respected  her  sorrow,  did  her  work  for 
her,  and  let  her  alone.  To  them  she  was  set  apart 
in  the  sanctuary  of  her  mourning,  and  that  her 

327 


The  Emigrant  Trail 

grief  should  express  itself  by  hours  of  drooping  si 
lence  was  a  thing  they  accepted  without  striving  to 
understand.  Once  or  twice  David  tried  to  speak 
to  her  of  her  father,  but  it  seemed  to  rouse  in  her 
an  irritated  and  despairing  pain.  She  begged  him 
to  desist  and  got  away  from  him  as  quickly  as  she 
could,  climbing  into  the  wagon  and  lying  on  the 
sacks,  with  bright,  unwinking  eyes  fastened  on 
Daddy  John's  back.  But  she  did  not  rest  stunned 
under  an  unexpected  blow  as  they  thought.  She 
was  acutely  alive,  bewildered,  but  with  senses  keen, 
as  if  the  world  had  taken  a  dizzying  revolution  and 
she  had  come  up  panting  and  clutching  among  the 
fragments  of  what  had  been  her  life. 

If  there  had  been  some  one  to  whom  she  could 
have  turned,  relieving  herself  by  confession,  she 
might  have  found  solace  and  set  her  feet  in  safer 
ways.  But  among  the  three  men  she  was  virtually 
alone,  guarding  her  secret  with  that  most  stubborn 
of  all  silences,  a  girl's  in  the  first  wakening  of  sex. 
She  had  a  superstitious  hope  that  she  could  regain 
peace  and  self-respect  by  an  act  of  reparation,  and 
at  such  moments  turned  with  expiatory  passion  to 
the  thought  of  David.  She  would  go  to  California, 
live  as  her  father  had  wished,  marry  her  betrothed, 
and  be  as  good  a  wife  to  him  as  man  could  have. 
And  for  a  space  these  thoughts  brought  her  ease, 
consoled  her  as  a  compensating  act  of  martyrdom. 

She  shunned  Courant,  rarely  addressing  him, 
keeping  her  horse  to  the  rear  of  the  train  where  the 
wagon  hood  hid  him  from  her.  But  when  his  foot 

328 


The  Desert 

fell  on  the  dust  beside  her,  or  he  dropped  back  for 
a  word  with  Daddy  John,  a  stealthy,  observant 
quietude  held  her  frame.  She  turned  her  eyes 
from  him  as  from  an  unholy  sight,  but  it  was  use 
less,  for  her  mental  vision  called  up  his  figure, 
painted  in  yellow  and  red  upon  the  background  of 
the  sage.  She  knew  the  expression  of  the  lithe 
body  as  it  leaned  from  the  saddle,  the  gnarled  hand 
from  which  the  rein  hung  loose,  the  eyes,  diamond 
hard  and  clear,  living  sparks  set  in  leathery  skin 
wrinkled  against  the  glare  of  the  waste.  She  did 
not  lie  to  herself  any  more.  No  delusions  could 
live  in  this  land  stripped  of  all  conciliatory  de 
ception. 

The  night  before  they  left  the  Fort  the  men  had 
had  a  consultation.  Sitting  apart  by  the  tent  she 
had  watched  them,  David  and  Daddy  John  between 
her  and  the  fire,  Courant  beyond  it.  His  face,  red 
lit  between  the  hanging  locks  of  hair,  his  quick  eyes, 
shifting  from  one  man  to  the  other,  was  keen  with 
a  furtive  anxiety.  At  a  point  in  the  murmured 
interview,  he  had  looked  beyond  them  to  the  dark 
ened  spot  where  she  sat.  Then  Daddy  John  and 
David  had  come  to  her  and  told  her  that  if  she 
wished  they  would  turn  back,  take  her  home  to 
Rochester,  and  stay  there  with  her  always.  There 
was  money  enough  they  said.  The  doctor  had  left 
seven  thousand  dollars  in  his  chest,  and  David  had 
three  to  add  to  it.  It  would  be  ample  to  live  on 
till  the  men  could  set  to  work  and  earn  a  main 
tenance  for  them.  No  word  was  spoken  of  her 

329 


The  Emigrant  Trail 

marriage,  but  it  lay  in  the  offing  of  their  argu 
ment  as  the  happy  finale  that  the  long  toil  of  the 
return  journey  and  the  combination  of  resources 
were  to  prelude. 

The  thought  of  going  back  had  never  occurred 
to  her,  and  shocked  her  into  abrupt  refusal.  It 
would  be  an  impossible  adaptation  to  outgrown 
conditions.  She  could  not  conjure  up  the  idea  of 
herself  refitted  into  the  broken  frame  of  her  girl 
hood.  She  told  them  she  would  go  on,  there  was 
nothing  now  to  go  back  for.  Their  only  course  was 
to  keep  to  the  original  plan,  emigrate  to  California 
anl  settle  there.  They  returned  to  the  fire  and  told 
Courant.  She  could  see  him  with  eager  gaze  lis 
tening.  Then  he  smiled  and,  rising  to  his  feet,  sent 
a  bold,  exultant  glance  through  the  darkness  to  her. 
She  drew  her  shawl  over  her  head  to  shut  it  out, 
for  she  was  afraid. 

They  rested  now  on  the  lip  of  the  desert,  gath 
ering  their  forces  for  the  last  lap  of  the  march. 
There  had  been  no  abatement  in  the  pressure  of 
their  pace,  and  Courant  had  told  them  it  must  be 
kept  up.  He  had  heard  the  story  of  the  Donner 
party  two  years  before,  and  the  first  of  September 
must  see  them  across  the  Sierra.  In  the  evenings 
he  conferred  with  Daddy  John  on  these  matters 
and  kept  a  vigilant  watch  on  the  animals  upon 
whose  condition  the  success  of  the  journey  de 
pended. 

David  was  not  included  in  these  consultations. 
Both  men  now  realized  that  he  was  useless  when 

330 


The  Desert 

it  came  to  the  rigors  of  the  trail.  Of  late  he  had 
felt  a  physical  and  spiritual  impairment,  that 
showed  in  a  slighted  observance  of  his  share  of  the 
labor.  He  had  never  learned  to  cord  his  pack,  and 
day  after  day  it  turned  under  his  horse's  belly,  dis 
charging  its  cargo  on  the  ground.  The  men,  growl 
ing  with  irritation,  finally  took  the  work  from  him, 
not  from  any  pitying  consideration,  but  to  prevent 
further  delay. 

He  was,  in  fact,  coming  to  that  Valley  of  Desola 
tion  where  the  body  faints  and  only  the  spirit's 
dauntlessness  can  keep  it  up  and  doing.  What 
dauntlessness  his  spirit  once  had  was  gone.  He 
moved  wearily,  automatically  doing  his  work  and 
doing  it  ill.  The  very  movements  of  his  hands, 
slack  and  fumbling,  were  an  exasperation  to  the 
other  men,  setting  their  strength  to  a  herculean 
measure,  and  giving  of  it  without  begrudgment. 
David  saw  their  anger  and  did  not  care.  Fatigue 
made  him  indifferent,  ate  into  his  pride,  brought 
down  his  self-respect.  He  plodded  on  doggedly, 
the  alkali  acrid  on  his  lips  and  burning  in  his  eye 
balls,  thinking  of  California,  not  as  the  haven  of 
love  and  dreams,  but  as  a  place  where  there  was 
coolness,  water,  and  rest.  When  in  the  dawn  he 
staggered  up  to  the  call  of  "  Catch  up,"  and  felt 
for  the  buckle  of  his  saddle  girth,  he  had  a  vision 
of  a  place  under  trees  by  a  river  where  he  could 
sleep  and  wake  and  turn  to  sleep  again,  and  go  on 
repeating  the  performance  all  day  with  no  one  to 
shout  at  him  if  he  was  stupid  and  forgot  things. 

331 


The  Emigrant  Trail 

Never  having  had  the  fine  physical  endowment 
of  the  others  all  the  fires  of  his  being  were  dying 
down  to  smoldering  ashes.  His  love  for  Susan 
faded,  if  not  from  his  heart,  from  his  eyes  and 
lips.  She  was  as  clear  to  him  as  ever,  but  now  with 
a  devitalized,  undemanding  affection  in  which  there 
was  something  of  a  child's  fretful  dependence.  He 
rode  beside  her  not  looking  at  her,  contented  that 
she  should  be  there,  but  with  the  thought  of  mar 
riage  buried  out  of  sight  under  the  weight  of  his 
weariness.  It  did  not  figure  at  all  in  his  mind, 
which,  when  roused  from  apathy,  reached  forward 
into  the  future  to  gloat  upon  the  dream  of  sleep. 
She  was  grateful  for  his  silence,  and  they  rode  side 
by  side,  detached  from  one  another,  moving  in  sep 
arated  worlds  of  sensation. 

This  evening  he  came  across  to  where  she  sat, 
dragging  a  blanket  in  an  indolent  hand.  He 
dropped  it  beside  her  and  threw  himself  upon  it 
with  a  sigh.  He  was  too  empty  of  thought  to  speak, 
and  lay  outstretched,  looking  at  the  plain  where 
dusk  gathered  in  shadowless  softness.  In  contrast 
with  his,  her  state  was  one  of  inner  tension,  strained 
to  the  breaking  point.  Torturings  of  conscience, 
fears  of  herself,  the  unaccustomed  bitterness  of 
condemnation,  melted  her,  and  she  was  ripe  for  con 
fession.  A  few  understanding  words  and  she 
would  have  poured  her  trouble  out  to  him,  less  in 
hope  of  sympathy  than  in  a  craving  for  relief.  The 
widening  gulf  would  have  been  bridged  and  he 
would  have  gained  the  closest  hold  upon  her  he 

332 


The  Desert 

had  yet  had.  But  if  she  were  more  a  woman  than 
ever  before,  dependent,  asking  for  aid,  he  was  less 
a  man,  wanting  himself  to  rest  on  her  and  have  his 
discomforts  made  bearable  by  her  consolations. 

She  looked  at  him  tentatively.  His  eyes  were 
closed,  the  lids  curiously  dark,  and  fringed  with 
long  lashes  like  a  girl's. 

"  Are  you  asleep?  "  she  asked. 

"  No,"  he  answered  without  raising  them. 
"  Only  tired." 

She  considered  for  a  moment,  then  said : 

"  Have  you  ever  told  a  lie?  " 

"  A  lie  ?  I  don't  know.  I  guess  so.  Everybody 
tells  lies  sometime  or  other." 

"  Not  little  lies.  Serious  ones,  sinful  ones,  to 
people  you  love." 

"  No.  I  never  told  that  kind.  That's  a  pretty 
low-down  thing  to  do." 

"  Mightn't  a  person  do  it — to — to — escape  from 
something  they  didn't  want,  something  they  sud 
denly — at  that  particular  moment — dreaded  and 
shrank  from  ?  " 

"  Why  couldn't  they  speak  out,  say  they  didn't 
want  to  do  it  ?  Why  did  they  have  to  lie  ?  " 

"  Perhaps  they  didn't  have  time  to  think,  and 
didn't  want  to  hurt  the  person  who  asked  it.  And 
— and — if  they  were  willing  to  do  the  thing  later, 
sometime  in  the  future,  wouldn't  that  make  up 
for  it?" 

"  I  can't  tell.  I  don't  know  enough  about  it.  I 
don't  understand  what  you  mean."  He  turned,  try- 

333 


The  Emigrant  Trail 

ing  to  make  himself  more  comfortable.  "  Lord, 
how  hard  this  ground  is!  I  believe  it's  solid  iron 
underneath." 

He  stretched  and  curled  on  the  blanket,  elonga 
ting  his  body  in  a  mighty  yawn  which  subsided  into 
the  solaced  note  of  a  groan.  "  There,  that's  better. 
I  ache  all  over  to-night." 

She  made  no  Answer,  looking  at  the  prospect 
from  morose  brows.  More  at  ease  he  returned  to 
the  subject  and  asked,  "Who's  been  telling  lies?" 

"  I,"  she  answered. 

He  gave  a  short  laugh,  that  drew  from  her  a  look 
of  quick  protest.  He  was  lying  on  his  side,  one 
arm  crooked  under  his  head,  his  eyes  on  her  in  a 
languid  glance  where  incredulity  shone  through 
amusement. 

'  Your  father  told  me  once  you  were  the  most 
truthful  woman  he'd  ever  known,  and  I  agree  with 
him." 

"  It  was  to  my  father  I  lied,"  she  answered. 

She  began  to  tremble,  for  part  at  least  of  the 
story  was  on  her  lips.  She  clasped  her  shaking 
hands  round  her  knees,  and,  not  looking  at  him, 
said  "  David,"  and  then  stopped,  stifled  by  the  dif 
ficulties  and  the  longing  to  speak. 

David  answered  by  laughing  outright,  a  pleasant 
sound,  not  guiltless  of  a  suggestion  of  sleep,  a 
laugh  of  good  nature  that  refuses  to  abdicate.  It 
brushed  her  back  into  herself  as  if  he  had  taken 
her  by  the  shoulders,  pushed  her  into  her  prison, 
and  slammed  the  door. 

334 


The  Desert 

"That's  all  imagination,"  he  said.  "When 
some  one  we  love  dies  we're  always  thinking  things 
like  that — that  we  neglected  them,  or  slighted  them, 
or  told  them  what  wasn't  true.  They  stand  out  in 
our  memories  bigger  than  all  the  good  things  we 
did.  Don't  you  worry  about  any  lies  you  ever  told 
your  father.  You've  got  nothing  to  accuse  yourself 
of  where  he's  concerned — or  anybody  else,  either." 

Her  heart,  that  had  throbbed  wildly  as  she 
thought  to  begin  her  confession,  sunk  back  to  a 
forlorn  beat.  He  noticed  her  dejected  air,  and  said 
comfortingly : 

"  Don't  be  downhearted,  Missy.  It's  been  terri 
bly  hard  for  you,  but  you'll  feel  better  when  we  get 
to  California,  and  can  live  like  Christians  again." 

"  California ! "  Her  intonation  told  of  the 
changed  mind  with  which  she  now  looked  forward 
to  the  Promised  Land. 

His  consolatory  intentions  died  before  his  own 
sense  of  grievance  at  the  toil  yet  before  them. 

"  Good  Lord,  it  does  seem  far — farther  than  it 
did  in  the  beginning.  I  used  to  be  thinking  of  it  all 
the  time  then,  and  how  I'd  get  to  work  the  first 
moment  we  arrived.  And  now  I  don't  care  what 
it's  like  or  think  of  what  I'm  going  to  do.  All  I 
want  to  get  there  for  is  to  stop  this  eternal  traveling 
and  rest." 

She,  too,  craved  rest,  but  of  the  spirit.  Her  out 
look  was  blacker  than  his,  for  it  offered  none  and 
drew  together  to  a  point  where  her  tribulations 
focused  in  a  final  act  of  self-immolation.  There 

335 


The  Emigrant  Trail 

was  a  pause,  and  he  said,  drowsiness  now  plain  in 
his  voice : 

"  But  we'll  be  there  some  day  unless  we  die  on 
the  road,  and  then  we  can  take  it  easy.  The  first 
thing  I'm  going  to  do  is  to  get  a  mattress  to  sleep 
on.  No  more  blankets  on  the  ground  for  me.  Do 
you  ever  think  what  it'll  be  like  to  sleep  in  a 
room  again  under  a  roof,  a  good,  waterproof  roof, 
that  the  sun  and  the  rain  can't  come  through?  The 
way  I  feel  now  that's  my  idea  of  Paradise." 

She  murmured  a  low  response,  her  thoughts  far 
from  the  flesh  pots  of  his  wearied  longing. 

"  I  think  just  at  this  moment,"  he  went  on 
dreamily,  "  I'd  rather  have  a  good  sleep  and  a  good 
meal  than  anything  else  in  the  world.  I  often 
dream  of  'em,  and  then  Daddy  John's  kicking  me 
and  it's  morning  and  I  got  to  crawl  out  of  the  blan 
ket  and  light  the  fire.  I  don't  know  whether  I  feel 
worse  at  that  time  or  in  the  evening  when  we're 
making  the  last  lap  for  the  camping  ground."  His 
voice  dropped  as  if  exhausted  before  the  memory 
of  these  unendurable  moments,  then  came  again  with 
a  note  of  cheer :  "  Thank  God,  Courant's  with  us  or 
I  don't  believe  we'd  ever  get  there." 

She  had  no  reply  to  make  to  this.  Neither  spoke 
for  a  space,  and  then  she  cautiously  stole  a  glance 
at  him  and  was  relieved  to  see  that  he  was  asleep. 
Careful  to  be  noiseless  she  rose,  took  up  a  tin  water 
pail  and  walked  to  the  river. 

The  Humboldt  rushed  through  a  deep-cut  bed, 
nosing  its  way  between  strewings  of  rock.  Up  the 

336 


The  Desert 

banks  alders  and  willows  grew  thick,  thrusting 
roots,  hungry  for  the  lean  deposits  of  soil,  into 
cracks  and  over  stony  ledges.  By  the  edge  the  cur 
rent  crisped  about  a  flat  rock,  and  Susan,  kneeling 
on  this,  dipped  in  her  pail.  The  water  slipped  in  in 
a  silvery  gush  which,  suddenly  seething  and  bub 
bling,  churned  in  the  hollowed  tin,  nearly  wrenching 
it  from  her.  She  leaned  forward,  dragging  it  awk 
wardly  toward  her,  clutching  at  an  alder  stem  with 
her  free  hand.  Her  head  was  bent,  but  she  raised 
it  with  a  jerk  when  she  heard  Courant's  voice  call, 
"  Wait,  I'll  do  it  for  you." 

He  was  on  the  opposite  bank,  the  trees  he  had 
broken  through  swishing  together  behind  him. 
She  lowered  her  head  without  answering,  her  face 
suddenly  charged  with  color.  Seized  by  an  over 
mastering  desire  to  escape  him,  she  dragged  at  the 
pail,  which,  caught  in  the  force  of  the  current, 
leaped  and  swayed  in  her  hand.  She  took  a  hurried 
upward  glimpse,  hopeful  of  his  delayed  progress, 
and  saw  him  jump  from  the  bank  to  a  stone  in  mid 
stream.  His  moccasined  feet  clung  to  its  slippery 
surface,  and  for  a  moment  he  oscillated  unsteadily, 
then  gained  his  balance  and,  laughing,  looked  at  her. 
For  a  breathing  space  each  rested  motionless,  she 
with  strained,  outstretched  arm,  he  on  the  rock,  a 
film  of  water  covering  his  feet.  It  was  a  moment 
of  physical  mastery  without  conscious  thought.  To 
each  the  personality  of  the  other  was  so  perturbing, 
that  without  words  or  touch,  the  heart  beats  of  both 
grew  harder,  and  their  glances  held  in  a  gaze  fixed 

337 


The  Emigrant  Trail 

and  gleaming.  The  woman  gained  her  self-posses 
sion  first,  and  with  it  an  animal  instinct  to  fly  from 
him,  swiftly  through  the  bushes. 

But  her  flight  was  delayed.  A  stick,  whirling  in 
the  current,  caught  between  the  pail's  rim  and 
handle  and  ground  against  her  fingers.  With  an 
angry  cry  she  loosed  her  hold,  and  the  bucket  went 
careening  into  midstream.  That  she  had  come 
back  to  harmony  with  her  surroundings  was  at 
tested  by  the  wail  of  chagrin  with  which  she  greeted 
the  accident.  It  was  the  last  pail  she  had  left.  She 
watched  Courant  wade  into  the  water  after  it,  and 
forgot  to  run  in  her  anxiety  to  see  if  he  would  get 
it.  "  Oh,  good!  "  came  from  her  in  a  gasp  as  he 
caught  the  handle.  But  when  he  came  splashing 
back  and  set  it  on  the  rock  beside  her,  it  suddenly 
lost  its  importance,  and  as  suddenly  she  became  a 
prey  to  low-voiced,  down-looking  discomfort.  A 
muttered  "  thank  you,"  was  all  the  words  she  had 
for  him,  and  she  got  to  her  feet  with  looks  directed 
to  the  arrangement  of  her  skirt. 

He  stood  knee-high  in  the  water  watching  her, 
glad  of  her  down-drooped  lids,  for  he  could  dwell 
on  the  bloom  that  deepened  under  his  eye. 

"  You  haven't  learned  the  force  of  running  water 
yet,"  he  said.  "  It  can  be  very  strong  sometimes, 
so  strong  that  a  little  woman's  hand  like  yours  has 
no  power  against  it." 

"  It  was  because  the  stick  caught  in  the  handle," 
she  muttered,  bending  for  the  pail.  "  It  hurt  my 
fingers." 

33* 


The  Desert 

'*  You've  never  guessed  that  I  was  called  l  Run 
ning  Water,'  have  you  ?  " 

"  You  ?  "  she  paused  with  look  arrested  in  sud 
den  interest.  "  Who  calls  you  that?  " 

"  Everybody — you.  L'eau  courante  means  run 
ning  water,  doesn't  it?  That's  what  you  call  me." 

In  the  surprise  of  the  revelation  she  forgot  her 
unease  and  looked  at  him,  repeating  slowly,  "  L'eau 
courante,  running  water.  Why,  of  course.  But  it's 
like  an  Indian's  name." 

"  It  is  an  Indian's  name.  The  Blackfeet  gave  it 
to  me  because  they  said  I  could  run  so  fast.  They 
were  after  me  once  and  a  man  makes  the  best  time 
he  can  then.  It  was  a  fine  race  and  I  won  it,  and 
after  that  they  called  me,  '  The  man  that  goes  like 
Running  Water.'  The  voyageurs  and  coureurs  des 
bois  put  it  into  their  lingo  and  it  stuck." 

"  But  your  real  name  ?  "  she  asked,  the  pail  for 
gotten. 

"  Just  a  common  French  one,  Duchesney,  Napo 
leon  Duchesney,  if  you  want  to  know  both  ends  of 
it.  It  was  my  father's.  He  was  called  after  the 
emperor  whom  my  grandfather  knew  years  ago  in 
France.  He  and  Napoleon  were  students  together 
in  the  military  school  at  Brienne.  In  the  Revolu 
tion  they  confiscated  his  lands,  and  he  came  out  to 
Louisiana  and  never  wanted  to  go  back."  He 
splashed  to  the  stone  and  took  up  the  bucket. 

She  stood  absorbed  in  the  discovery,  her  child's 
mind  busy  over  this  new  conception  of  him  as  a 
man  whose  birth  and  station  had  evidently  been  so 

339 


The  Emigrant  Trail 

different  to  the  present  conditions  of  his  life.  When 
she  spoke  her  mental  attitude  was  naively  displayed. 
"  Why  didn't  you  tell  before?  " 

He  shrugged. 

"  What  was  there  to  tell  ?  The  mountain  men 
don't  always  use  their  own  names." 

The  bucket,  swayed  by  the  movement,  threw  a 
jet  of  water  on  her  foot.  He  moved  back  from  her 
and  said,  "  I  like  the  Indian  name  best.'* 

"  It  is  pretty,"  and  in  a  lower  key,  as  though 
trying  its  sound,  she  repeated  softly,  "  L'eau  Cou- 
rante,  Running  Water." 

"  It's  something  clear  and  strong,  sometimes 
shallow  and  then  again  deeper  than  you  can  guess. 
And  when  there's  anything  in  the  way,  it  gathers 
all  its  strength  and  sweeps  over  it.  It's  a  mighty 
force.  You  have  to  be  stronger  than  it  is — and 
more  cunning  too — to  stop  it  in  the  way  it  wants 
to  go." 

Above  their  heads  the  sky  glowed  in  red  bars, 
but  down  in  the  stream's  hollow  the  dusk  had  come, 
cool  and  gray.  She  was  suddenly  aware  of  it,  no 
ticed  the  diminished  light,  and  the  thickening  pur 
plish  tones  that  had  robbed  the  trees  and  rocks  of 
color.  Her  warm  vitality  was  invaded  by  chill  that 
crept  inward  and  touched  her  spirit  with  an  eerie 
dread.  She  turned  quickly  and  ran  through  the 
bushes  calling  back  to  him,  "  I  must  hurry  and  get 
supper.  They'll  be  waiting.  Bring  the  pail." 

Courant  followed  slowly,  watching  her  as  she 
climbed  the  bank, 

340 


CHAPTER    II 

FOR  some  days  their  route  followed  the  river, 
then  they  would  leave  it  and  strike  due  west,  mak 
ing  marches  from  spring  to  spring.  The  country 
was  as  arid  as  the  face  of  a  dead  planet,  save  where 
the  water's  course  was  marked  by  a  line  of  green. 
Here  and  there  the  sage  was  broken  by  bare  spaces 
where  the  alkali  cropped  out  in  a  white  encrusting. 
Low  mountains  edged  up  about  the  horizon,  thrust 
ing  out  pointed  scarps  like  capes  protruding  into 
slumbrous,  gray-green  seas.  These  capes  were  ob 
jects  upon  which  they  could  fix  their  eyes,  goals  to 
reach  and  pass.  In  the  blank  monotony  they  of 
fered  an  interest,  something  to  strive  for,  some 
thing  that  marked  an  advance.  The  mountains 
never  seemed  to  retreat  or  come  nearer.  They  en 
circled  the  plain  in  a  crumpled  wall,  the  same  day 
after  day,  a  low  girdle  of  volcanic  shapes,  cleft  with 
moving  shadows. 

The  sun  was  the  sun  of  August.  It  reeled  across 
a  sky  paled  by  its  ardor,  at  midday  seeming  to 
pause  and  hang  vindictive  over  the  little  caravan. 
Under  its  fury  all  color  left  the  blanched  earth,  all 
shadows  shrunk  away  to  nothing.  The  train  alone, 
as  if  in  desperate  defiance,  showed  a  black  blot  be 
neath  the  wagon,  an  inky  snake  sliding  over  the 


The  Emigrant  Trail 

ground  under  each  horse's  sweating  belly.  The  air 
was  like  a  stretched  tissue,  strained  to  the  limit  of 
its  elasticity,  in  places  parting  in  delicate,  glassy 
tremblings.  Sometimes  in  the  distance  the  mirage 
hung  brilliant,  a  blue  lake  with  waves  crisping  on  a 
yellow  shore.  They  watched  it  with  hungry  eyes, 
a  piece  of  illusion  framed  by  the  bleached  and  bitter 
reality. 

When  evening  came  the  great  transformation  be 
gan.  With  the  first  deepening  of  color  the  desert's 
silent  heart  began  to  beat  in  expectation  of  its  hour 
of  beauty.  Its  bleak  detail  was  lost  in  shrouding 
veils  and  fiery  reflection.  The  earth  floor  became  a 
golden  sea  from  which  the  capes  reared  themselves 
in  shapes  of  bronze  and  copper.  The  ring  of  moun 
tains  in  the  east  flushed  to  the  pink  of  the  topaz, 
then  bending  westward  shaded  from  rosy  lilac  to 
mauve,  and  where  the  sunset  backed  them,  darkened 
to  black.  As  the  hour  progressed  the  stillness  grew 
more  profound,  the  naked  levels  swept  out  in  wilder 
glory,  inundated  by  pools  of  light,  lines  of  fire  eat 
ing  a  glowing  way  through  sinks  where  twilight 
gathered.  With  each  moment  it  became  a  more  tre 
mendous  spectacle.  The  solemnity  attendant  on  the 
passage  of  a  miracle  held  it.  From  the  sun's 
mouth  the  voice  of  God  seemed  calling  the  dead 
land  to  life. 

Each  night  the  travelers  gazed  upon  it,  ragged 
forms  gilded  by  its  radiance,  awed  and  dumb.  Its 
splendors  crushed  them,  filling  them  with  nostalgic 
longings.  They  bore  on  with  eyes  that  were  sick 

342 


The  Desert 

for  a  sight  of  some  homely,  familiar  thing  that 
would  tell  them  they  were  still  human,  still  deni 
zens  of  a  world  they  knew.  The  life  into  which 
they  fitted  and  had  uses  was  as  though  perished 
from  the  face  of  the  earth.  The  weak  man  sunk 
beneath  the  burden  of  its  strangeness.  Its  beauty 
made  no  appeal  to  him.  He  felt  lost  and  dazed  in 
its  iron-ringed  ruthlessness,  dry  as  a  skeleton  by 
daylight,  at  night  transformed  by  witchfires  of  en 
chantment.  The  man  and  woman,  in  whom  vitality 
was  strong,  combatted  its  blighting  force,  refused 
to  be  broken  by  its  power.  They  desired  with 
vehemence  to  assert  themselves,  to  rebel,  not  to  sub 
mit  to  the  sense  of  their  nothingness.  They  turned 
to  one  another  hungry  for  the  life  that  now  was 
only  within  themselves.  They  had  passed  beyond 
the  limits  of  the  accustomed,  were  like  detached 
particles  gone  outside  the  law  of  gravity,  floating 
undirected  through  spaces  where  they  were  nothing 
and  had  nothing  but  their  bodies,  their  passions, 
themselves. 

To  a  surface  observation  they  would  have  ap 
peared  as  stolid  as  savages,  but  their  nerves  were 
taut  as  drawn  violin  strings.  Strange  self-asser 
tions,  violences  of  temper,  were  under  the  skin 
ready  to  break  out  at  a  jar  in  the  methodical  rou 
tine.  Had  the  train  been  larger,  its  solidarity  less 
complete,  furious  quarrels  would  have  taken  place. 
With  an  acknowledged  leader  whom  they  believed 
in  and  obeyed,  the  chances  of  friction  were  lessened. 
Three  of  them  could  meet  the  physical  demands  of 

343 


The  Emigrant  Trail 

the  struggle.  It  was  David's  fate  that,  unable  to 
do  thiSj  he  should  fall  to  a  position  of  feeble  use- 
lessness,  endurable  in  a  woman,  but  difficult  to  put 
up  with  in  a  man. 

One  morning  Susan  was  waked  by  angry  voices. 
An  oath  shook  sleep  from  her,  and  thrusting  her 
head  out  of  the  wagon  where  she  now  slept,  she 
saw  the  three  men  standing  in  a  group,  rage  on 
Courant's  face,  disgust  on  Daddy  John's,  and  on 
David's  an  abstraction  of  aghast  dismay  that  was 
not  unlike  despair.  To  her  question  Daddy  John 
gave  a  short  answer.  David's  horses,  insecurely 
picketed,  had  pulled  up  their  stakes  in  the  night  and 
gone.  A  memory  of  the  young  man's  exhaus 
tion  the  evening  before,  told  the  girl  the  story; 
David  had  forgotten  to  picket  them  and  immedi 
ately  after  supper  had  fallen  asleep.  He  had  evi 
dently  been  afraid  to  tell  and  invented  the  explana 
tion  of  dragged  picket  pins.  She  did  not  know 
whether  the  men  believed  it,  but  she  saw  by  their 
faces  they  were  in  no  mood  to  admit  extenuating 
circumstances.  The  oath  had  been  Courant's. 
When  he  heard  her  voice  he  shut  his  lips  on  others, 
but  they  welled  up  in  his  eyes,  glowering  furiously 
on  the  culprit  from  the  jut  of  drawn  brows. 

"  What  am  I  to  do  ?  "  said  the  unfortunate  young 
man,  sending  a  despairing  glance  over  the  prospect. 
Under  his  weak  misery,  rebellious  ill  humor  was 
visible. 

"  Go  after  them  and  bring  them  back." 

Susan  saw  the  leader  had  difficulty  in  confining 
344 


The  Desert 

himself  to  such  brief  phrases.  Dragging  a  blanket 
round  her  shoulders  she  leaned  over  the  seat.  She 
felt  like  a  woman  who  enters  a  quarrel  to  protect 
a  child. 

"  Couldn't  we  let  them  go?  "  she  cried.  "  We've 
still  my  father's  horse.  David  can  ride  it  and  we 
can  put  his  things  in  the  wagon." 

"  Not  another  ounce  in  the  wagon,"  said  Daddy 
John.  "  The  mules  are  doing  their  limit  now." 
The  wagon  was  his  kingdom  over  which  he  ruled 
an  absolute  monarch. 

Courant  looked  at  her  and  spoke  curtly,  ignoring 
David.  "  We  can't  lose  a  horse  now.  We  need 
every  one  of  them.  It's  not  here.  It's  beyond  in 
the  mountains.  We've  got  to  get  over  by  the  first 
of  September,  and  we  want  every  animal  we  have 
to  do  it.  He's  not  able  to  walk." 

He  shot  a  contemptuous  glance  at  David  that  in 
less  bitter  times  would  have  made  the  young  man's 
blood  boil.  But  David  was  too  far  from  his  nor 
mal  self  to  care.  He  was  not  able  to  walk  and  was 
glad  that  Courant  understood  it. 

"  I've  got  to  go  after  them,  I  suppose,"  he 
said  sullenly  and  turned  to  where  the  animals 
looked  on  with  expectant  eyes.  "  But  it's  the  last 
time  I'll  do  it.  If  they  go  again  they'll  stay 
gone." 

There  was  a  mutter  from  the  other  men.  Susan, 
full  of  alarm,  scrambled  into  the  back  of  the  wagon 
and  pulled  on  her  clothes.  When  she  emerged 
David  had  the  doctor's  horse  saddled  and  was  about 

345 


The  Emigrant  Trail 

to  mount.  His  face,  heavy-eyed  and  unwashed, 
bore  an  expression  of  morose  anger,  but  fatigue 
spoke  pathetically  in  his  slow,  lifeless  movements, 
the  droop  of  his  thin,  high  shoulders. 

"  David/'  she  called,  jumping  out  over  the  wheel, 
"  wait." 

He  did  not  look  at  her  or  answer,  but  climbed 
into  the  saddle  and  gathered  his  rein.  She  ran  to 
ward  him  crying,  "  Wait  and  have  some  breakfast. 
I'll  get  it  for  you." 

He  continued  to  pay  no  attention  to  her,  glancing 
down  at  his  foot  as  it  felt  for  the  stirrup.  She 
stopped  short,  repulsed  by  his  manner,  watching 
him  as  he  sent  a  forward  look  over  the  tracks  of 
the  lost  horses.  They  wound  into  the  distance 
fading  amid  the  sweep  of  motionless  sage.  It 
would  be  a  long  search  and  the  day  was  already 
hot.  Pity  rose  above  all  other  feelings,  and  she 
said : 

"  Have  they  told  you  what  they're  going  to  do  ? 
Whether  we'll  wait  here  or  go  on  and  have  you 
catch  us  up  ?  " 

"  I  don't  know  what  they're  going  to  do  and 
don't  care,"  he  answered,  and  touching  the  horse 
with  his  spur  rode  away  between  the  brushing 
bushes. 

She  turned  to  Daddy  John,  her  eyes  full  of 
alarmed  question. 

"  He  knows  all  about  it,"  said  the  old  man  with 
slow  phlegm,  "  I  told  him  myself.  There's  food 
and  water  for  him  packed  on  behind  the  saddle.  I 

346 


The  Desert 

done  that  too.  He'd  have  gone  without  it  just  to 
spite  himself.  We'll  rest  here  this  morning,  and  if 
he  ain't  back  by  noon  move  on  slow  till  he  catches 
us  up.  Don't  you  worry.  He  done  the  wrong 
thing  and  he's  got  to  learn." 

No  more  was  said  about  David,  and  after  break 
fast  they  waited  doing  the  odd  tasks  that  accumu 
lated  for  their  few  periods  of  rest.  Susan  sat  sew 
ing  where  the  wagon  cast  a  cooling  slant  of  shade. 
Daddy  John  was  beyond  her  in  the  sun,  his  sere  old 
body,  from  which  time  had  stripped  the  flesh,  leav 
ing  only  a  tenuous  bark  of  muscle,  was  impervious 
to  the  heat.  In  the  growing  glare  he  worked  over 
a  broken  saddle,  the  whitening  reaches  stretching 
out  beyond  him  to  where  the  mountains  waved  in 
a  clear  blue  line  as  if  laid  on  with  one  wash  of  a 
saturated  paint  brush.  Courant  was  near  him  in 
the  shadow  of  his  horse,  cleaning  a  gun,  sharp 
clicks  of  metal  now  and  then  breaking  into  the 
stillness. 

As  the  hours  passed  the  shadow  of  the  wagon 
shrunk  and  the  girl  moved  with  it  till  her  back  was 
pressed  against  the  wheel.  She  was  making  a 
calico  jacket,  and  as  she  moved  it  the  crisp  material 
emitted  low  cracklings.  Each  rustle  was  subdued 
and  stealthy,  dying  quickly  away  as  if  it  were  in 
conspiracy  with  the  silence  and  did  not  want  to  dis 
turb  it.  Courant's  back  was  toward  her.  He  had 
purposely  set  his  face  away,  but  he  could  hear  the 
furtive  whisperings  of  the  stirred  calico.  He  was 
full  of  the  consciousness  of  her,  and  this  sound, 

347 


The  Emigrant  Trail 

which  carried  a  picture  of  her  drooped  head  and 
moving  hands,  came  with  a  stealing  unquiet,  ur 
gently  intrusive  and  persistent.  He  tried  to  hold 
his  mind  on  his  work,  but  his  movements  slackened, 
grew  intermittent,  his  ear  attentive  for  the  low 
rustling  that  crept  toward  him  at  intervals  like  the 
effervescent  approach  of  waves.  Each  time  he 
heard  it  the  waves  washed  deeper  to  his  inner 
senses  and  stole  something  from  his  restraining 
will.  For  days  the  desert  had  been  stealing  from  it 
too.  He  knew  it  and  was  guarded  and  fearful  of 
it,  but  this  morning  he  forgot  to  watch,  forgot  to 
care.  His  reason  was  drugged  by  the  sound,  the 
stifled,  whispering  sound  that  her  hands  made  mov 
ing  the  material  from  which  she  fashioned  a  cover 
ing  for  her  body. 

He  sat  with  his  back  turned  to  her,  his  hands 
loose  on  the  gun,  his  eyes  fixed  in  an  unseeing  stare. 
He  did  not  know  what  he  looked  at  or  that  the 
shadow  of  the  horse  had  slipped  beyond  him. 
When  he  heard  her  move  his  quietness  increased 
to  a  trancelike  suspension  of  movement,  the  inner 
concentration  holding  every  muscle  in  spellbound 
rigidness.  Suddenly  she  tore  the  calico  with  a  keen, 
rending  noise,  and  it  was  as  if  her  hands  had  seized 
upon  and  so  torn  the  tension  that  held  him.  His 
fists  clinched  on  the  gun  barrel,  and  for  a  moment 
the  mountain  line  undulated  to  his  gaze.  Had  they 
been  alone,  speech  would  have  burst  from  him,  but 
the  presence  of  the  old  man  kept  him  silent.  He 
bowed  his  head  over  the  gun,  making  a  pretense  of 

348 


The  Desert 

giving  it  a  last  inspection,  then,  surer  of  himself, 
leaped  to  his  feet  and  said  gruffly : 

"  Let's  move  on.  There's  no  good  waiting 
here." 

The  other  two  demurred.  Susan  rose  and  walked 
into  the  glare  sweeping  the  way  David  had  gone. 
Against  the  pale  background  she  stood  out  a  vital 
figure,  made  up  of  glowing  tints  that  reached  their 
brightest  note  in  the  heated  rose  of  her  cheeks  and 
lips.  Her  dark  head  with  its  curly  crest  of  hair 
was  defined  as  if  painted  on  the  opaque  blue  of  the 
sky.  She  stood  motionless,  only  her  eyes  moving 
as  they  searched  the  distance.  All  of  life  that  re 
mained  in  the  famished  land  seemed  to  have  flowed 
into  her  and  found  a  beautified  expression  in  the 
rich  vitality  of  her  upright  form,  the  flushed  bloom 
of  her  face.  Daddy  John  bent  to  pick  up  the  sad 
dle,  and  the  mountain  man,  safe  from  espial,  looked 
at  her  with  burning  eyes. 

"  David's  not  in  sight,"  she  said.  "  Do  you 
think  we'd  better  go  on  ?  " 

"  Whether  we'd  better  or  not  we  will,"  he  an 
swered  roughly.  "  Catch  up,  Daddy  John." 

They  were  accustomed  to  obeying  him  like  chil 
dren  their  master.  So  without  more  parley  they 
pulled  up  stakes,  loaded  the  wagon,  and  started. 
As  Susan  fell  back  to  her  place  at  the  rear,  she 
called  to  Courant: 

"  We'll  go  as  slowly  as  we  can.  We  mustn't  get 
too  far  ahead.  David  can't  ride  hard  the  way  he 


349 


The  Emigrant  Trail 

The  man  growled  an  answer  that  she  did  not 
hear,  and  without  looking  at  her  took  the  road. 

They  made  their  evening  halt  by  the  river.  It 
had  dwindled  to  a  fragile  stream  which,  wandering 
away  into  the  dryness,  would  creep  feebly  to  its 
sink  and  there  disappear,  sucked  into  secret  subways 
that  no  man  knew.  To-morrow  they  would  start 
across  the  desert,  where  they  could  see  the  road 
leading  straight  in  a  white  seam  to  the  west.  David 
had  not  come.  The  mules  stood  stripped  of  their 
harness,  the  wagon  rested  with  dropped  tongue,  the 
mess  chest  was  open  and  pans  shone  in  mingled 
fire  and  sunset  gleams,  but  the  mysteries  of  the  dis 
tance,  over  which  twilight  veils  were  thickening, 
gave  no  sign  of  him.  Daddy  John  built  up  the  des 
ert  fire  as  a  beacon — a  pile  of  sage  that  burned  like 
tinder.  It  shot  high,  tossed  exultant  flames  toward 
the  dimmed  stars  and  sent  long  jets  of  light  into 
the  encircling  darkness.  Its  wavering  radiance,  red 
and  dancing,  touched  the  scattered  objects  of  the 
camp,  revealing  and  then  losing  them  as  new  flame 
ran  along  the  leaves  or  charred  branches  dropped. 
Outside  the  night  hung,  deep  and  silent.  Susan 
hovered  on  the  outskirts  of  the  glow.  Darkness 
was  thickening,  creeping  from  the  hills  that  lay 
inky-edged  against  the  scarlet  of  the  sky.  Once  she 
sent  up  a  high  cry  of  David's  name.  Courant,  busy 
with  his  horses,  lifted  his  head  and  looked  at  her, 
scowling  over  his  shoulder. 

"  Why  are  you  calling?  "  he  said.  "  He  can  see 
the  fire." 

350 


The  Desert 

She  came  back  and  stood  near  him,  her  eyes  on 
him  in  uneasy  scrutiny :  "  We  shouldn't  have  gone 
on.  We  should  have  waited  for  him." 

There  was  questioning  and  also  a  suggestion  of 
condemnation  in  her  voice.  She  was  anxious  and 
her  tone  and  manner  showed  she  thought  it  his 
fault. 

He  bent  to  loosen  a  girth. 

"Are  you  afraid  he's  lost?"  he  said,  his  face 
against  the  horse. 

"No.     But  if  he  was?" 

"Well!     And  if  he  was?" 

The  girth  was  uncinched  and  he  swept  saddle  and 
blanket  to  the  ground. 

st  We'd  have  to  go  back  for  him,  and  you  say  we 
must  lose  no  time." 

He  kicked  the  things  aside  and  made  no  an 
swer.  Then  as  he  groped  for  the  picket  pins  he 
was  conscious  that  she  turned  again  with  the 
nervous  movement  of  worry  and  swept  the 
plain. 

"  He  was  sick.  We  oughtn't  to  have  gone  on," 
she  repeated,  and  the  note  of  blame  was  stronger. 
"  Oh,  I  wish  he'd  come !  " 

Their  conversation  had  been  carried  on  in  a  low 
key.  Suddenly  Courant,  wheeling  round  on  her, 
spoke  in  the  raised  tone  of  anger. 

"  And  am  I  to  stop  the  train  because  that  fool 
don't  know  enough  or  care  enough  to  picket  his 
horses?  Is  it  always  to  be  him?  Excuses  made 
and  things  done  for  him  as  if  he  was  a  sick  girl 

351 


The  Emigrant  Trail 

or  a  baby.  Let  him  be  lost,  and  stay  lost,  and  be 
damned  to  him." 

Daddy  John  looked  up  from  the  sheaf  of  newly 
gathered  sage  with  the  alertness  of  a  scared  mon 
key.  Susan  stepped  back,  feeling  suddenly  breath 
less.  Courant  made  a  movement  as  if  to  follow 
her,  then  stopped,  his  face  rived  with  lines  and  red 
with  rage.  He  was  shaken  by  what  to  her  was  en 
tirely  inexplicable  anger,  and  in  her  amazement  she 
stared  vacantly  at  him. 

"What's  that,  what's  that?"  chirped  Daddy 
John,  scrambling  to  his  feet  and  coming  toward 
them  with  chin  thrust  belligerently  forward  and 
blinking  eyes  full  of  fight. 

Neither  spoke  to  him  and  he  added  sharply: 

"Didn't  I  hear  swearing?  Who's  swearing 
now?  "  as  if  he  had  his  doubts  that  it  might  be 
Susan. 

Courant  with  a  stifled  phrase  turned  from  them, 
picked  up  his  hammer  and  began  driving  in  the 
stakes. 

"What  was  it?"  whispered  the  old  man. 
"What's  the  matter  with  him?  Is  he  mad  at 
David?" 

She  shook  her  head,  putting  a  finger  on  her  lip 
in  sign  of  silence,  and  moving  away  to  the  other 
side  of  the  fire.  She  felt  the  strain  in  the  men  and 
knew  it  was  her  place  to  try  and  keep  the  peace. 
But  a  sense  of  forlorn  helplessness  amid  these  war 
ring  spirits  lay  heavily  on  her  and  she  beckoned  to 
the  old  servant,  wanting  him  near  her  as  one  who, 

352 


The  Desert 

no  matter  how  dire  the  circumstances,  would  never 
fail  her. 

1  Yes,  he's  angry,"  she  said  when  they  were  out 
of  earshot.  "  I  suppose  it's  about  David.  But  what 
can  we  do?  We  can't  make  David  over  into  an 
other  man,  and  we  can't  leave  him  behind  just  be 
cause  he's  not  as  strong  as  the  rest  of  us.  I  feel 
as  if  we  were  getting  to  be  savages." 

The  old  man  gave  a  grunt  that  had  a  note  of 
cynical  acquiescence,  then  held  up  his  hand  in  a 
signal  for  quiet.  The  thud  of  a  horse's  hoofs  came 
from  the  outside  night.  With  a  quick  word  to  get 
the  supper  ready,  she  ran  forward  and  stood  in 
the  farthest  rim  of  the  light  waiting  for  her  be 
trothed. 

David  was  a  pitiable  spectacle.  The  dust  lay 
thick  on  his  face,  save  round  his  eyes,  whence  he 
had  rubbed  it,  leaving  the  sockets  looking  unnat 
urally  sunken  and  black.  His  collar  was  open  and 
his  neck  rose  bare  and  roped  with  sinews.  There 
was  but  one  horse  at  the  end  of  the  trail  rope.  As 
he  slid  out  of  the  saddle,  he  dropped  the  rope  on  the 
ground,  saying  that  the  other  animal  was  sick,  he 
had  left  it  dying  he  thought.  He  had  found  them 
miles  off,  miles  and  miles — with  a  weak  wave  of 
his  hand  toward  the  south — near  an  alkaline  spring 
where  he  supposed  they  had  been  drinking.  The 
other  couldn't  move,  this  one  he  had  dragged  along 
with  him.  The  men  turned  their  attention  to  the 
horse,  which,  with  swollen  body  and  drooping 
head,  looked  as  if  it  might  soon  follow  its  mate. 

353 


The  Emigrant  Trail 

They  touched  it,  and  spoke  together,  brows  knit 
over  the  trouble,  not  paying  any  attention  to  David, 
who,  back  in  the  flesh,  was  sufficiently  accounted 
for. 

Susan  was  horrified  by  his  appearance.  She  had 
never  seen  him  look  so  much  a  haggard  stranger  to 
himself.  He  was  prostrate  with  fatigue,  and 
throughout  the  day  he  had  nursed  a  sense  of  bitter 
injury.  Now  back  among  them,  seeing  the  out 
spread  signs  of  their  rest,  and  with  the  good  smell 
of  their  food  in  his  nostrils,  this  rose  to  the  pitch 
of  hysterical  rage,  ready  to  vent  itself  at  the  first 
excuse.  The  sight  of  the  girl,  fresh-skinned  from 
a  wash  in  the  river,  instead  of  soothing,  further 
inflamed  him.  Her  glowing  well-being  seemed 
bought  at  his  expense.  Her  words  of  concern 
spoke  to  his  sick  ear  with  a  note  of  smug,  unfeeling 
complacence. 

"  David,  you're  half  dead.  Everything'll  be 
ready  in  a  minute.  Sit  down  and  rest.  Here,  take 
my  blanket." 

She  spread  her  blanket  for  him,  but  he  stood 
still,  not  answering,  staring  at  her  with  dull,  ac 
cusing  eyes.  Then,  with  a  dazed  movement,  he 
pushed  his  hand  over  the  crown  of  his  head  throw 
ing  off  his  hat.  The  hand  was  unsteady,  and  it  fell, 
the  hooked  forefinger  catching  in  the  opening  of 
his  shirt,  dragging  it  down  and  showing  his  bony 
breast.  If  he  had  been  nothing  to  her  she  would 
have  pitied  him.  Sense  of  wrongs  done  him  made 
the  pity  passionate.  She  went  to  him,  the  consoling 

354 


The  Desert 

woman  in  her  eyes,  and  laid  her  hand  on  the  one 
that  rested  on  his  chest. 

"  David,  sit  down  and  rest.  Don't  move  again. 
I'll  get  you  everything.  I  never  saw  you  look  as 
you  do  to-night." 

With  an  angry  movement  he  threw  her  hand  off. 

"  You  don't  care,"  he  said.  "  What  does  it  mat 
ter  to  you  when  you've  been  comfortable  all  day? 
So  long  as  you  and  the  others  are  all  right  /  don't 
matter." 

It  was  so  unlike  him,  his  face  was  so  changed 
and  charged  with  a  childish  wretchedness,  that  she 
felt  no  check  upon  her  sympathy.  She  knew  it  was 
not  David  that  spoke,  but  a  usurping  spirit  born  of 
evil  days.  The  other  men  pricked  their  ears  and 
listened,  but  she  was  indifferent  to  their  watch,  and 
tried  again  to  take  his  hand,  saying,  pleadingly: 

"  Sit  down.  WThen  I  get  your  supper  you'll  be 
better.  I'll  have  it  ready  in  a  few  minutes." 

This  time  he  threw  her  hand  off  with  violence. 
His  face,  under  its  dust  mask,  flamed  with  the  an 
ger  that  had  been  accumulating  through  the  day. 

"  Let  me  alone,"  he  cried,  his  voice  strangled 
like  a  wrathful  child's.  "  I  don't  want  anything 
to  do  with  you.  Eat  your  supper.  When  I'm  ready 
I'll  get  mine  without  any  help  from  you.  Let 
me  be." 

He  turned  from  her,  and  moving  over  the  blan 
ket,  stumbled  on  its  folds.  The  jar  was  the  break 
ing  touch  to  his  overwrought  nerves.  He  stag 
gered,  caught  his  breath  with  a  hiccoughing  gasp, 

355 


The  Emigrant  Trail 

and  dropping  his  face  into  his  hands  burst  into 
hysterical  tears.  Then  in  a  sudden  abandonment  of 
misery  he  threw  himself  on  the  blanket,  buried  his 
head  in  his  folded  arms  and  rending  sobs  broke 
from  him.  For  a  moment  they  were  absolutely  still, 
staring  at  him  in  stupefied  surprise.  Daddy  John, 
his  neck  craned  round  the  blaze,  surveyed  him  with 
bright,  sharp  eyes  of  unemotional  query,  then 
flopped  the  bacon  pan  on  the  embers,  and  said: 
"  He's  all  done." 

Courant  advanced  a  step,  looked  down  on  him 
and  threw  a  sidelong  glance  at  Susan,  bold  with 
meaning.  After  her  first  moment  of  amazement, 
she  moved  to  David's  side,  drew  the  edge  of  the 
blanket  over  him,  touched  his  head  with  a  light 
caress,  and  turned  back  to  the  fire.  The  plates  and 
cups  were  lying  there  and  she  quietly  set  them  out, 
her  eye  now  and  then  straying  for  a  needed  object, 
her  hand  hanging  in  suspended  search  then  drop 
ping  upon  it,  and  noiselessly  putting  it  in  its  place. 
Unconsciously  they  maintained  an  awed  silence,  as 
if  they  were  sitting  by  the  dead.  Daddy  John 
turned  the  bacon  with  stealthy  care,  the  scrape  of 
his  knife  on  the  pan  sounding  a  rude  and  unseemly 
intrusion.  Upon  this  scrupulously  maintained 
quietude  the  man's  weeping  broke  insistent,  the  sti 
fled  regular  beat  of  sobs  hammering  on  it  as  if 
determined  to  drive  their  complacency  away  and 
reduce  them  to  the  low  ebb  of  misery  in  which  he 
lay. 

They  had  almost  finished  their  meal  when  the 

356 


The  Desert 

sounds  lessened,  dwindling  to  spasmodic,  stagger 
ing  gasps  with  lengthening  pauses  that  broke  sud 
denly  in  a  quivering  intake  of  breath  and  a  vibra 
tion  of  the  recumbent  frame.  The  hysterical  par 
oxysm  was  over.  He  lay  limp  and  turned  his  head 
on  his  arms,  too  exhausted  to  feel  shame  for  the 
shine  of  tears  on  his  cheek.  Susan  took  a  plate  of 
food  and  a  coffee  cup  and  stole  toward  him,  the 
two  men  watching  her  under  their  eyelids.  She 
knelt  beside  him  and  spoke  very  gently,  "  Will  you 
take  this,  David?  You'll  feel  stronger  after  you've 
eaten." 

"  Put  it  down,"  he  said  hoarsely,  without 
moving. 

"  Shall  I  give  you  the  coffee?  "  She  hung  over 
him  looking  into  his  face.  "  I  can  hold  the  cup  and 
you  can  drink  it." 

"  By  and  by,"  he  muttered. 

She  bent  lower  and  laid  her  hand  on  his  hair. 

"  David,  I'm  so  sorry,"  she  breathed. 

Courant  leaped  to  his  feet  and  walked  to  where 
his  horses  stood.  He  struck  one  of  them  a  blow 
on  the  flank  that  after  the  silence  and  the  low  tones 
of  the  girl's  crooning  voice  sounded  as  violent  as  a 
pistol  shot.  They  all  started,  even  David  lifted  his 
head. 

"What's  the  matter  now?"  said  Daddy  John, 
alert  for  any  outbreak  of  man  or  beast. 

But  Courant  made  no  answer,  and  moved  away 
into  the  plain.  It  was  some  time  before  he  came 
back,  emerging  from  the  darkness  as  noiselessly  as 

357 


The  Emigrant  Trail 

he  had  gone.  David  had  eaten  his  supper  and  was 
asleep,  the  girl  sitting  beyond  him  withdrawn  from 
the  fire  glow.  Daddy  John  was  examining  the  sick 
horse,  and  Courant  joined  him,  walking  round  the 
beast  and  listening  to  the  old  man's  opinions  as  to 
its  condition.  They  were  not  encouraging.  It 
seemed  likely  that  David's  carelessness  would  cost 
the  train  two  valuable  animals. 

To  the  outward  eye  peace  had  again  settled  on 
the  camp.  The  low  conferrings  of  the  two  men, 
the  dying  snaps  of  the  charred  twigs,  were  the  only 
sounds.  The  night  brooded  serene  about  the  biv 
ouac,  the  large  stars  showing  clear  now  that  the 
central  glare  had  sunk  to  a  red  heap  of  ruin.  Far 
away,  on  the  hills,  the  sparks  of  Indian  fires 
gleamed.  They  had  followed  the  train  for  days, 
watching  it  like  the  eyes  of  hungry  animals,  too 
timid  to  come  nearer.  But  there  was  no  cause  for 
alarm,  for  the  desert  Indians  were  a  feeble  race, 
averse  to  bloodshed,  thieves  at  their  worst,  descend 
ing  upon  the  deserted  camping  grounds  to  carry 
away  what  the  emigrants  left. 

Nevertheless,  when  the  sound  of  hoof  beats  came 
from  the  trail  both  men  made  a  quick  snatch  for 
their  rifles,  and  Susan  jumped  to  her  feet  with  a 
cry  of  "  Some  one's  coming."  They  could  see 
nothing,  the  darkness  hanging  like  a  curtain  across 
their  vision.  Courant,  with  his  rifle  in  the  hollow 
of  his  arm,  moved  toward  the  sounds,  his  hail 
reaching  clear  and  deep  into  the  night.  An  answer 
came  in  a  man's  voice,  the  hoof  beats  grew  louder, 

358 


The  Desert 

and  the  reaching  light  defined  approaching  shapes. 
Daddy  John  threw  a  bunch  of  sage  on  the  fire,  and 
in  the  rush  of  flame  that  flew  along  its  branches, 
two  mounted  men  were  visible. 

They  dropped  to  the  ground  and  came  forward. 
"  From  California  to  the  States,"  the  foremost  said 
to  Susan,  seeing  a  woman  with  fears  to  be  allayed. 
He  was  tall  and  angular  with  a  frank,  copper- 
tanned  face,  overtopped  by  a  wide  spread  of  hat, 
and  bearded  to  the  eyes.  He  wore  a  loose  hickory 
shirt  and  buckskin  breeches  tucked  into  long  boots, 
already  broken  from  the  soles.  The  other  was  a 
small  and  comical  figure  with  an  upstanding  crest 
of  sunburned  blond  hair,  tight  curled  and  thick 
as  a  sheep's  fleece.  When  he  saw  Susan  he  delayed 
his  advance  to  put  on  a  ragged  army  overcoat  that 
hung  to  his  heels,  and  evidently  hid  discrepancies 
in  his  costume  not  meet  for  a  lady's  eye.  Both  men 
were  powdered  with  dust,  and  announced  them 
selves  as  hungry  enough  to  eat  their  horses. 

Out  came  pans  and  supplies,  and  the  snapping  of 
bacon  fat  and  smell  of  coffee  rose  pungent. 
Though,  by  their  own  account,  they  had  ridden  hard 
and  far,  there  was  a  feverish  energy  of  life  in  each 
of  them  that  roused  the  drooping  spirits  of  the 
others  like  an  electrifying  current.  They  ate  rav 
enously,  pausing  between  mouthfuls  to  put  quick 
questions  on  the  condition  of  the  eastward  trail,  its 
grazing  grounds,  what  supplies  could  be  had  at  the 
Forts.  It  was  evident  they  were  new  to  journey 
ing  on  the  great  bare  highways  of  the  wilderness, 

359 


The  Emigrant  Trail 

but  that  fact  seemed  to  have  no  blighting  effect  on 
their  zeal.  What  and  who  they  were  came  out  in 
the  talk  that  gushed  in  the  intervals  of  feeding. 
The  fair-haired  man  was  a  sailor,  shipped  from  Bos 
ton  round  the  Horn  for  California  eight  months  be 
fore.  The  fact  that  he  was  a  deserter  dropped  out 
with  others.  He  was  safe  here — with  a  side-long 
laugh  at  Susan — no  more  of  the  sea  for  him. 

He  was  going  back  for  money,  money  and  men. 
It  was  too  late  to  get  through  to  the  States  now? 
Well  he'd  wait  and  winter  at  Fort  Laramie  if  he 
had  to,  but  he  guessed  he'd  make  a  pretty  vigorous 
effort  to  get  to  St.  Louis.  His  companion  was 
from  Philadelphia,  and  was  going  back  for  his  wife 
and  children,  also  money.  He'd  bring  them  out 
next  spring,  collect  a  big  train,  stock  it  well,  and 
carry  them  across  with  him. 

"  And  start  early,  not  waste  any  time  dawdling 
round  and  talking.  Start  with  the  first  of  'em  and 
get  to  California  before  the  rush  begins. " 

"  Rush  ?  "  said  Courant.  "  Are  you  looking  for 
a  rush  next  year?  " 

The  man  leaned  forward  with  upraised,  arresting 
hand,  "  The  biggest  rush  in  the  history  of  this 
country.  Friends,  there's  gold  in  California." 

Gold!  The  word  came  in  different  keys,  their 
flaccid  bodies  stiffened  into  upright  eagerness — 
Gold  in  the  Promised  Land! 

Then  came  the  great  story,  the  discovery  of 
California's  treasure  told  by  wanderers  to  wander 
ers  under  the  desert  stars.  Six  months  before  gold 

360 


The  Desert 

had  been  found  in  the  race  of  Slitter's  mill  in  the 
foothills.  The  streams  that  sucked  their  life  from 
the  snow  crests  of  the  Sierras  were  yellow  with 
it.  It  lay,  a  dusty  sediment,  in  the  prospector's  pan. 
It  spread  through  the  rock  cracks  in  sparkling 
seams. 

The  strangers  capped  story  with  story,  chanted 
the  tales  of  fantastic  exaggeration  that  had  already 
gone  forth,  and  up  and  down  California  were  call 
ing  men  from  ranch  and  seaboard.  They  were 
coming  down  from  Oregon  along  the  wild  spine  of 
the  coast  ranges  and  up  from  the  Mission  towns 
strung  on  highways  beaten  out  by  Spanish  soldier 
and  padre.  The  news  was  now  en  route  to  the 
outer  world  carried  by  ships.  It  would  fly  from 
port  to  port,  run  like  fire  up  the  eastern  coast  and 
leap  to  the  inland  cities  and  the  frontier  villages. 
And  next  spring,  when  the  roads  were  open,  would 
come  the  men,  the  regiments  of  men,  on  foot, 
mounted,  in  long  caravans,  hastening  to  California 
for  the  gold  that  was  there  for  anyone  who  had  the 
strength  and  hardihood  to  go. 

The  bearded  man  got  up,  went  to  his  horse  and 
brought  back  his  pack.  He  opened  it,  pulled  off  the 
outer  blanketing,  and  from  a  piece  of  dirty  calico 
drew  a  black  sock,  bulging  and  heavy.  From  this 
in  turn  he  shook  a  small  buckskin  sack.  He 
smoothed  the  calico,  untied  a  shoestring  from  the 
sack's  mouth,  and  let  a  stream  of  dun-colored  dust 
run  out.  It  shone  in  the  firelight  in  a  slow  sifting 
rivulet,  here  and  there  a  bright  flake  like  a  spangle 


The  Emigrant  Trail 

sending  out  a  yellow  spark.  Several  times  a  solid 
particle  obstructed  the  lazy  flow,  which  broke  upon 
it  like  water  on  a  rock,  dividing  and  sinking  in  two 
heavy  streams.  It  poured  with  unctious  delibera 
tion  till  the  sack  was  empty,  and  the  man  held  it 
up  to  show  the  powdered  dust  of  dust  clinging  to 
the  inside. 

"  That's  three  weeks'  washing  on  the  river  across 
the  valley  beyond  Sacramento,"  he  said,  "  and  it's 
worth  four  thousand  dollars  in  the  United  States 
mint" 

The  pile  shone  yellow  in  the  fire's  even  glow,  and 
they  stared  at  it,  wonderstruck,  each  face  showing 
a  sudden  kindling  of  greed,  the  longing  to  possess, 
to  know  the  power  and  peace  of  wealth.  It  came 
with  added  sharpness  in  the  midst  of  their  bare  dis 
tress.  Even  the  girl  felt  it,  leaning  forward  to 
gloat  with  brightened  eyes  on  the  little  pyramid. 
David  forgot  his  injuries  and  craned  his  neck  to 
listen,  dreams  once  more  astir.  California  became 
suddenly  a  radiant  vision.  No  longer  a  faint  line 
of  color,  vaguely  lovely,  but  a  place  where  fortune 
waited  them,  gold  to  fill  their  coffers,  to  bring  them 
ease,  to  give  their  aspirations  definite  shape,  to 
repay  them  for  their  bitter  pilgrimage.  They  were 
seiz-ed  with  the  lust  of  it,  and  their  attentive  faces 
sharpened  with  the  strain  of  the  growing  desire. 
They  felt  the  onward  urge  to  be  up  and  moving, 
to  get  there  and  lay  their  hands  on  the  waiting 
treasure. 

The  night  grew  old  and  still  they  talked,  their 
362 


The  Desert 

fatigue  forgotten.  They  heard  the  tale  of  Mar 
shall's  discovery  and  how  it  flew  right  and  left 
through  the  spacious,  idle  land.  There  were  few 
to  answer  the  call,  ranches  scattered  wide  over  the 
unpeopled  valleys,  small  traders  in  the  little  towns 
along  the  coast.  In  the  settlement  of  Yerba  Buena, 
fringing  the  edge  of  San  Francisco  Bay,  men  were 
leaving  their  goods  at  their  shop  doors  and  going 
inland.  Ships  were  lying  idle  in  the  tide  water, 
every  sailor  gone  to  find  the  golden  river.  The 
fair-haired  man  laughed  and  told  how  he'd  swam 
naked  in  the  darkness,  his  money  in  his  mouth,  and 
crawled  up  the  long,  shoal  shore,  waist  high  in 
mud. 

The  small  hours  had  come  when  one  by  one  they 
dropped  to  sleep  as  they  lay.  A  twist  of  the  blan 
ket,  a  squirming  into  deeper  comfort,  and  rest  was 
on  them.  They  sprawled  in  the  caked  dust  like 
dead  men  fallen  in  battle  and  left  as  they  had 
dropped.  Even  the  girl  forgot  the  habits  of  a  life 
long  observance  and  sunk  to  sleep  among  them, 
her  head  on  a  saddle,  the  old  servant  curled  at  her 
feet. 


363 


CHAPTER    III 

IN  the  even  dawn  light  the  strangers  left.  It  was 
hail  and  farewell  in  desert  meetings.  They  trotted 
off  into  the  ghostlike  stillness  of  the  plain  which 
for  a  space  threw  back  their  hoof  beats,  and  then 
closed  round  them.  The  departure  of  the  westward 
band  was  not  so  prompt.  With  unbound  packs  and 
unharnessed  animals,  they  stood,  a  dismayed  group, 
gathered  round  a  center  of  disturbance.  David  was 
ill.  The  exertions  of  the  day  before  had  drained 
his  last  reserve  of  strength.  He  could  hardly  stand, 
complained  of  pain,  and  a  fever  painted  his  drawn 
face  with  a  dry  flush.  Under  their  concerned  looks, 
he  climbed  on  his  horse,  swayed  there  weakly,  then 
slid  off  and  dropped  on  the  ground. 

"  I'm  too  sick  to  go  on,"  he  said  in  the  final  col 
lapse  of  misery.  "  You  can  leave  me  here  to  die." 

He  lay  flat,  looking  up  at  the  sky,  his  long  hair 
raying  like  a  mourning  halo  from  the  outline  of  his 
skull,  his  arms  outspread  as  if  his  soul  had  submit 
ted  to  its  crucifixion  and  his  body  was  in  agreement. 
That  he  was  ill  was  beyond  question.  The  men 
had  their  suspicions  that  he,  like  the  horses,  had 
drunk  of  the  alkaline  spring. 

Susan  was  for  remaining  where  they  were  till  he 
recovered,  the  others  wanted  to  go  on.  He  gave 

364 


The  Desert 

no  ear  to  their  debate,  interrupting  it  once  to  an 
nounce  his  intention  of  dying  where  he  lay.  This 
called  forth  a  look  of  compassion  from  the  girl,  a 
movement  of  exasperation  from  the  mountain  man. 
Daddy  John  merely  spat  and  lifted  his  hat  to  the 
faint  dawn  air.  It  was  finally  agreed  that  David 
should  be  placed  in  the  wagon,  his  belongings 
packed  on  his  horse,  while  the  sick  animal  must 
follow  as  best  it  could. 

During  the  morning's  march  no  one  spoke.  They 
might  have  been  a  picture  moving  across  a  picture 
for  all  the  animation  they  showed.  The  exaltation 
of  the  evening  before  had  died  down  to  a  spark, 
alight  and  warming  still,  but  pitifully  shrunk  from 
last  night's  high-flaming  buoyancy.  It  was  hard 
to  keep  up  hopes  in  these  distressful  hours.  Cali 
fornia  had  again  receded.  The  desert  and  the 
mountains  were  yet  to  pass.  The  immediate  mo 
ment  hemmed  them  in  so  closely  that  it  was  an  ef 
fort  to  look  through  it  and  feel  the  thrill  of  joys 
that  lay  so  far  beyond.  It  was  better  to  focus  their 
attention  on  the  lone  promontories  that  cut  the  dis 
tance  and  gradually  grew  from  flat  surfaces  ap 
plied  on  the  plain  to  solid  shapes,  thick-based  and 
shadow  cloven. 

They  made  their  noon  camp  at  a  spring,  bubbling 
from  a  rim  of  white-rooted  grass.  David  refused 
to  take  anything  but  water,  groaning  as  he  sat  up 
in  the  wagon  and  stretching  a  hot  hand  for  the  cup 
that  Susan  brought.  The  men  paid  no  attention  to 
him.  They  showed  more  concern  for  the  sick  horse, 

365 


The  Emigrant  Trail 

which  when  not  incapacitated  did  its  part  with  good 
will,  giving  the  full  measure  of  its  strength.  That 
they  refrained  from  open  anger  and  upbraiding 
was  the  only  concession  they  made  to  the  conven 
tions  they  had  learned  in  easier  times.  Whether 
David  cared  or  not  he  said  nothing,  lying  fever- 
flushed,  his  wandering  glance  held  to  attention 
when  Susan's  face  appeared  at  the  canvas  opening. 
He  hung  upon  her  presence,  querulously  exacting 
in  his  unfamiliar  pain. 

Making  ready  for  the  start  their  eyes  swept  a 
prospect  that  showed  no  spot  of  green,  and  they 
filled  their  casks  neck  high  and  rolled  out  into  the 
dazzling  shimmer  of  the  afternoon.  The  desert  was 
widening,  the  hills  receding,  shrinking  away  to  a 
crenelated  edge  that  fretted  a  horizon  drawn  as 
straight  as  a  ruled  line.  The  plain  unrolled  more 
spacious  and  grimmer,  not  a  growth  in  sight  save 
sage,  not  a  trickle  of  water  or  leaf  murmur,  even 
the  mirage  had  vanished  leaving  the  distance  bare 
and  mottled  with  a  leprous  white.  At  intervals, 
outstretched  like  a  pointing  finger,  the  toothed 
summit  of  a  ridge  projected,  its  base  uplifted  in 
clear,  mirrored  reflection. 

The  second  half  of  the  day  was  as  unbroken  by 
speech  or  incident  as  the  morning.  They  had  noth 
ing  to  say,  as  dry  of  thought  as  they  were  despoiled 
of  energy.  The  shadows  were  beginning  to  length 
en  when  they  came  to  a  fork  in  the  trail.  One 
branch  bore  straight  westward,  the  other  slanted 
toward  the  south,  and  both  showed  signs  of  recent 

366 


The  Desert 

travel.  Following  them  to  the  distance  was  like 
following  the  tracks  of  creeping  things  traced  on 
a  sandy  shore.  Neither  led  to  anything — sage, 
dust,  the  up-standing  combs  of  rocky  reefs  were  all 
the  searching  eye  could  see  till  sight  lost  itself  in 
the  earth's  curve.  The  girl  and  the  two  men  stood 
in  the  van  of  the  train  consulting.  The  region  was 
new  to  Courant,  but  they  left  it  to  him,  and  he 
decided  for  the  southern  route. 

For  the  rest  of  the  afternoon  they  followed  it. 
The  day  deepened  to  evening  and  they  bore  across 
a  flaming  level,  striped  with  gigantic  shadows. 
Looking  forward  they  saw  a  lake  of  gold  that 
lapped  the  roots  of  rose  and  lilac  hills.  The  road 
swept  downward  to  a  crimsoned  butte,  cleft  apart, 
and  holding  in  its  knees  a  gleam  of  water.  The 
animals,  smelling  it,  broke  for  it,  tearing  the  wagon 
over  sand  hummocks  and  crackling  twigs.  It  was 
a  feeble  upwelling,  exhausted  by  a  single  draught. 
Each  beast,  desperately  nosing  in  its  coolness, 
drained  it,  and  there  was  a  long  wait  ere  the  tiny 
depression  filled  again.  Finally,  it  was  dried  of  its 
last  drop,  and  the  reluctant  ooze  stopped.  The  ani 
mals,  their  thirst  half  slaked,  drooped  about  it, 
looking  with  mournful  inquiry  at  the  disturbed 
faces  of  their  masters. 

It  was  a  bad  sign.  The  men  knew  there  were 
waterless  tracts  in  the  desert  that  the  emigrant  must 
skirt.  They  mounted  to  the  summit  of  the  butte 
and  scanned  their  surroundings.  The  world  shone 
a  radiant  floor  out  of  which  each  sage  brush  rose 

367 


The  Emigrant  Trail 

a  floating,  feathered  tuft,  but  of  gleam  or  trickle 
of  water  there  was  none.  When  they  came  down 
David  lay  beside  the  spring  his  eyes  on  its  basin, 
now  a  muddied  hole,  the  rim  patterned  with  hoof 
prints.  When  he  heard  them  coming  he  rose  on  his 
elbow  awaiting  them  with  a  haggard  glance,  then 
seeing  their  blank  looks  sank  back  groaning.  To 
Susan's  command  that  a  cask  be  broached,  Courant 
gave  a  sullen  consent.  She  drew  off  the  first  cup 
ful  and  gave  it  to  the  sick  man,  his  lean  hands 
straining  for  it,  his  fingers  fumbling  in  a  search 
for  the  handle.  The  leader,  after  watching  her  for 
a  moment,  turned  awray  and  swung  off,  muttering. 
David  dropped  back  on  the  ground,  his  eyes  closed, 
his  body  curved  about  the  damp  depression. 

The  evening  burned  to  night,  the  encampment 
growing  black  against  the  scarlet  sky.  The  brush 
fire  sent  a  line  of  smoke  straight  up,  a  long  milky 
thread,  that  slowly  disentangled  itself  and  mounted 
to  a  final  outspreading.  Each  member  of  the 
group  was  still,  the  girl  lying  a  dark  oblong  under 
her  blanket,  her  face  upturned  to  the  stars  which 
blossomed  slowly  in  the  huge,  unclouded  heaven. 
At  the  root  of  the  butte,  hidden  against  its  shadowy 
base,  the  mountain  man  lay  motionless,  but  his 
eyes  were  open  and  they  rested  on  her,  not  closing 
or  straying. 

When  no  one  saw  him  he  kept  this  stealthy 
watch.  In  the  daytime,  with  the  others  about,  he 
still  was  careful  to  preserve  his  brusque  indiffer 
ence,  to  avoid  her,  to  hide  his  passion  with  a  jealous 


The  Desert 

subtlety.  But  beneath  the  imposed  bonds  it  grew 
with  each  day,  stronger  and  more  savage  as  the 
way  waxed  fiercer.  It  was  not  an  obsession  of  oc 
casional  moments,  it  was  always  with  him.  As 
pilot  her  image  moved  across  the  waste  before  him. 
When  he  fell  back  for  words  with  Daddy  John, 
he  was  listening  through  the  old  man's  speech,  for 
the  fall  of  her  horse's  hoofs.  Her  voice  made  his 
heart  stop,  the  rustle  of  her  garments  dried  his 
throat.  When  his  lowered  eyes  saw  her  hand  on 
the  plate's  edge,  he  grew  rigid,  unable  to  eat.  If  she 
brushed  by  him  in  the  bustle  of  camp  pitching,  his 
hands  lost  their  strength  and  he  was  sick  with  the 
sense  of  her.  Love,  courtship,  marriage,  were 
words  that  no  longer  had  any  meaning  for  him. 
All  the  tenderness  and  humanity  he  had  felt  for 
her  in  the  days  of  her  father's  sickness  were  gone. 
They  were  burned  away,  as  the  water  and  the  grass 
were.  When  he  saw  her  solicitude  for  David,  his 
contempt  for  the  weak  man  hardened  into  hatred. 
He  told  himself  that  he  hated  them  both,  and  he 
told  himself  he  would  crush  and  kill  them  both 
before  David  should  get  her.  The  desire  to  keep 
her  from  David  was  stronger  than  the  desire  to 
have  her  for  himself.  He  did  not  think  or  care 
what  he  felt.  She  was  the  prey  to  be  won  by  cun 
ning  or  daring,  whose  taste  or  wishes  had  no  place 
in  the  struggle.  He  no  longer  looked  ahead, 
thought,  or  reasoned.  The  elemental  in  him  was 
developing  to  fit  a  scene  in  which  only  the  ele 
mental  survived. 

369 


The  Emigrant  Trail 

They  broke  camp  at  four  the  next  morning.  For 
the  last  few  days  the  heat  had  been  unbearable,  and 
they  decided  to  start  while  the  air  was  still  cool 
and  prolong  the  noon  halt.  The  landscape  grew 
barer.  There  were  open  areas  where  the  soil  was 
soft  and  sifted  from  the  wheels  like  sand,  and 
dried  stretches  where  the  alkali  lay  in  a  caked,  white 
crust.  In  one  place  the  earth  humped  into  long, 
wavelike  swells  each  crest  topped  with  a  fringe  of 
brush,  fine  and  feathery  as  petrified  spray.  At  mid 
day  there  was  no  water  in  sight.  Courant,  stand 
ing  on  his  saddle,  saw  no  promise  of  it,  nothing 
but  the  level  distance  streaked  with  white  moun 
tain  rims,  and  far  to  the  south  a  patch  of  yellow 
— bare  sand,  he  said,  as  he  pointed  a  horny  finger 
to  where  it  lay. 

They  camped  in  the  glare  and  opened  the  casks. 
After  the  meal  they  tried  to  rest,  but  the  sun  was 
merciless.  The  girl  crawled  under  the  wagon  and 
lay  there  on  the  dust,  sleeping  with  one  arm  thrown 
across  her  face.  The  two  men  sat  near  by,  their 
hats  drawn  low  over  their  brows.  There  was  not  a 
sound.  The  silence  seemed  transmuted  to  a  slowly 
thickening  essence  solidifying  round  them.  It 
pressed  upon  them  till  speech  was  as  impossible 
as  it  would  be  under  water.  A  broken  group  in 
the  landscape's  immensity,  they  were  like  a  new 
expression  of  its  somber  vitality,  motionless  yet  full 
of  life,  in  consonance  with  its  bare  and  brutal 
verity. 

Courant  left   them  to  reconnoiter,   and   at  mid 


The  Desert 

afternoon  came  back  to  announce  that  farther  on 
the  trail  bent  to  an  outcropping  of  red  rock  where 
he  thought  there  might  be  water.  It  was  the  hot 
test  hour  of  the  day.  The  animals  strained  at  their 
harness  with  lolling  tongues  and  white-rimmed  eye 
balls,  their  sweat  making  tracks  on  the  dust.  To 
lighten  the  wagon  Daddy  John  walked  beside  it, 
plodding  on  in  his  broken  moccasins,  now  and  then 
chirruping  to  Julia.  The  girl  rode  behind  him, 
her  blouse  open  at  the  neck,  her  hair  clinging  in 
a  black  veining  to  her  bedewed  temples.  Several 
times  he  turned  back  to  look  at  her  as  the  only  other 
female  of  the  party  to  be  encouraged.  When  she 
caught  his  eye  she  nodded  as  though  acknowledging 
the  salutation  of  a  passerby,  her  dumbness  an  in 
stinctive  hoarding  of  physical  force. 

The  red  rock  came  in  sight,  a  nicked  edge  across 
the  distance.  As  they  approached,  it  drew  up  from 
the  plain  in  a  series  of  crumpled  points  like  the 
comb  of  a  rooster.  The  detail  of  the  intervening 
space  was  lost  in  the  first  crepuscular  softness,  and 
they  saw  nothing  but  a  stretch  of  darkening  purple 
from  which  rose  the  scalloped  crest  painted  in 
strange  colors.  Courant  trotted  forward  crying  a 
word  of  hope,  and  they  pricked  after  him  to  where 
the  low  bulwark  loomed  above  the  plain's  swim 
ming  mystery. 

When  they  reached  it  he  was  standing  at  the  edge 
of  a  caverned  indentation.  Dead  grasses  dropped 
against  the  walls,  withered  weeds  thickened  toward 
the  apex  in  a  tangled  carpet.  There  had  once  been 

371 


The  Emigrant  Trail 

water  there,  but  it  was  gone,  dried,  or  sunk  to  some 
hidden  channel  in  the  rock's  heart.  They  stood 
staring  at  the  scorched  herbage  and  the  basin  where 
the  earth  was  cracked  apart  in  its  last  gasping 
throes  of  thirst. 

David's  voice  broke  the  silence.  He  had  climbed 
to  the  front  seat,  and  his  face,  gilded  with  the  sun 
light,  looked  like  the  face  of  a  dead  man  painted 
yellow. 

"Is  there  water?"  he  said,  then  saw  the  dead 
grass  and  dried  basin,  and  met  the  blank  looks  of 
his  companions. 

Susan's  laconic  "  The  spring's  dry,"  was  not 
necessary.  He  fell  forward  on  the  seat  with  a 
moan,  his  head  propped  in  his  hands,  his  fingers 
buried  in  his  hair.  Courant  sent  a  look  of  furious 
contempt  over  his  abject  figure,  then  gave  a  laugh 
that  fell  on  the  silence  bitter  as  a  curse.  Daddy 
John  without  a  word  moved  off  and  began  un 
hitching  the  mules.  Even  in  Susan  pity  was,  for 
the  moment,  choked  by  a  swell  of  disgust.  Had 
she  not  had  the  other  men  to  measure  him  by,  had 
she  not  within  her  own  sturdy  frame  felt  the  spirit 
still  strong  for  conflict,  she  might  still  have  known 
only  the  woman's  sympathy  for  the  feebler  creature. 
But  they  were  a  trio  steeled  and  braced  for  invin 
cible  effort,  and  this  weakling,  without  the  body 
and  the  spirit  for  the  enterprise,  was  an  alien 
among  them. 

She  went  to  the  back  of  the  wagon  and  opened 
the  mess  chest.  As  she  picked  out  the  supper 

372 


The  Desert 

things  she  began  to  repent.     The  lean,  bent  figure 
and  sunken  head  kept  recurring  to  her.     She  saw 
him  not  as  David  but  as  a  suffering  outsider,  and 
for  a  second,  motionless,  with  a  blackened  skillet 
in  her  hand,  had  a  faint,  clairvoyant  understanding 
of  his  soul's  desolation  amid  the  close-knit  unity  of 
their  endeavor.     She  dropped  the  tin  and  went  back 
to  the  front  of  the  wagon.     He  was  climbing  out, 
hanging  tremulous  to  the  roof  support,  a  haggard 
spectacle,  with  wearied  eyes  and  skin  drawn  into 
fine  puckerings  across  the  temples.     Pity  came  back 
in  a  remorseful  wave,  and  she  ran  to  him  and  lifted 
his  arm  to  her  shoulder.     It  clasped  her  hard  and 
they  walked  to  where  at  the  rock's  base  the  sage 
grew  high.     Here  she  laid  a  blanket  for  him  and 
spread  another  on  the  top  of  the  bushes,  fastening 
it  to  the  tallest  ones  till  it  stretched,  a  sheltering 
canopy,  over  him.     She  tried  to  cheer  him  with  as 
surances  that  water  would  be  found  at  the  next 
halting  place.     He  was  listless  at  first,  seeming  not 
to  listen,  then  the  life  in  her  voice  roused  his  slug 
gish  faculties,  his  cheeks  took  color,  and  his  dull 
glance  lit  on  point  after  point  in  its  passage  to  her 
face,  like  the  needle  flickering  toward  the  pole. 

"  If  I  could  get  water  enough  to  drink,  I'd  be 
all  right,"  he  said.  "  The  pains  are  gone." 

"  They  must  find  it  soon,"  she  answered,  lifting 
the  weight  of  his  fallen  courage,  heavy  as  his  body 
might  have  been  to  her  arms.  "  This  is  a  traveled 
road.  There  must  be  a  spring  somewhere  along 
it." 

373 


The  Emigrant  Trail 

And  she  continued  prying  up  the  despairing 
spirit  till  the  man  began  to  respond,  showing  re 
turning  hope  in  the  eagerness  with  which  he  hung 
on  her  words.  When  he  lay  sinking  into  drowsy 
quiet,  she  stole  away  from  him  to  where  the  camp 
was  spread  about  the  unlit  pyre  of  Daddy  John's 
sage  brush.  It  was  too  early  for  supper,  and  the 
old  man,  with  the  accouterments  of  the  hunt  slung 
upon  his  person  and  his  rifle  in  his  hand,  was  about 
to  go  afield  after  jack  rabbit. 

"  It's  a  bad  business  this,"  he  said  in  answer  to 
the  worry  she  dared  not  express.  "  The  animals 
can't  hold  out  much  longer." 

"  What  are  we  to  do?  There's  only  a  little  water 
left  in  one  of  the  casks." 

"  Low's  goin'  to  strike  across  for  the  other  trail. 
He's  goin'  after  supper,  and  he  says  he'll  ride  all 
night  till  he  gets  it.  He  thinks  if  he  goes  due  that 
way,"  pointing  northward,  "  he  can  strike  it  sooner 
than  by  goin'  back." 

They  looked  in  the  direction  he  pointed.  Each 
bush  was  sending  a  phenomenally  long  shadow 
from  its  intersection  with  the  ground.  There  was 
no  butte  or  hummock  to  break  the  expanse  between 
them  and  the  faint,  far  silhouette  of  mountains. 
Her  heart  sank,  a  sinking  that  fatigue  and  dread  of 
thirst  had  never  given  her. 

"  He  may  lose  us,"  she  said. 

The  old  man  jerked  his  head  toward  the  rock. 

"  He'll  steer  by  that,  and  I'll  keep  the  fire  going 
till  morning." 

374 


The  Desert 

"But  how  can  he  ride  all  night?  He  must  be 
half  dead  now." 

"  A  man  like  him  don't  die  easy.  It's  not  the 
muscle  and  the  bones,  it's  the  grit.  He  says  it's  him 
that  made  the  mistake  and  it's  him  that's  goin'  to 
get  us  back  on  the  right  road." 

"  What  will  he  do  for  water?  " 

"Take  an  empty  cask  behind  the  saddle  and 
trust  to  God." 

"  But  there's  water  in  one  of  our  casks  yet." 

"  Yes,  he  knows  it,  but  he's  goin'  to  leave  that 
for  us.  And  we  got  to  hang  on  to  it,  Missy.  Do 
you  understand  that  ?  " 

She  nodded,  frowning  and  biting  her  underlip. 

"Are  you  feelin'  bad?"  said  the  old  man  un 
easily. 

"  Not  a  bit,"  she  answered.    "  Don't  worry  about 

me." 

He  laid  a  hand  on  her  shoulder  and  looked  into 
her  face  with  eyes  that  said  more  than  his  tongue 
could. 

"  You're  as  good  a  man  as  any  of  us.  When  we 
get  to  California  we'll  have  fun  laughing  over 
this." 

He  gave  the  shoulder  a  shake,  then  drew  back 
and  picked  up  his  rifle. 

"  I'll  get  you  a  rabbit  for  supper  if  I  can,"  he 
said  with  his  cackling  laugh.  "  That's  about  the 
best  I  can  do." 

He  left  her  trailing  off  into  the  reddened  reaches 
of  the  sage,  and  she  went  back  to  the  rock,  thinking 

375 


The  Emigrant  Trail 

that  in  some  overlooked  hollow,  water  might  linger. 
She  passed  the  mouth  of  the  dead  spring,  then 
skirted  the  spot  where  David  lay,  a  motionless 
shape  under  the  canopy  of  the  blanket.  A  few 
paces  beyond  him  a  buttress  extended  and,  rounding 
it,  she  found  a  triangular  opening  inclosed  on  three 
sides  by  walls,  their  summits  orange  with  the  last 
sunlight.  There  had  once  been  water  here  for  the 
grasses,  and  thin-leafed  plants  grew  rank  about 
the  rock's  base,  then  outlined  in  sere  decay  what 
had  evidently  been  the  path  of  a  streamlet.  She 
knelt  among  them,  thrusting  her  hands  between 
their  rustling  stalks,  jerking  them  up  and  casting 
them  away,  the  friable  soil  spattering  from  their 
roots. 

The  heat  was  torrid,  the  noon  ardors  still  impris 
oned  between  the  slanting  walls.  Presently  she  sat 
back  on  her  heels,  and  with  an  earthy  hand  pushed 
the  moist  hair  from  her  forehead.  The  movement 
brought  her  head  up,  and  her  wandering  eyes,  rov 
ing  in  morose  inspection,  turned  to  the  cleft's  open 
ing.  Courant  was  standing  there,  watching  her. 
His  hands  hung  loose  at  his  sides,  his  head  was 
drooped  forward,  his  chin  lowered  toward  his 
throat.  The  position  lent  to  his  gaze  a  suggestion 
of  animal  ruminance  and  concentration. 

"  Why  don't  you  get  David  to  do  that?  "  he  said 
slowly. 

The  air  in  the  little  cleft  seemed  to  her  suddenly 
heavy  and  hard  to  breathe.  She  caught  it  into  her 
lungs  with  a  quick  inhalation.  Dropping  her  eyes 

376 


The  Desert 

to  the  weeds  she  said  sharply,  "  David's  sick.  He 
can't  do  anything.  You  know  that." 

"He  that  ought  to  be  out  in  the  desert  there 
looking  for  water's  lying  asleep  under  a  blanket. 
That's  your  man." 

He  did  not  move  or  divert  his  gaze.  There  was 
something  singularly  sinister  in  the  fixed  and  gleam 
ing  look  and  the  rigidity  of  his  watching  face.  She 
plucked  at  a  weed,  saw  her  hand's  trembling  and 
to  hide  it  struck  her  palms  together  shaking  off  the 
dust.  The  sound  filled  the  silent  place.  To  her 
ears  it  was  hardly  louder  than  the  terrified  beating 
of  her  heart. 

"  That's  the  man  you've  chosen,"  he  went  on. 
"  A  feller  that  gives  out  when  the  road's  hard,  who 
hasn't  enough  backbone  to  stand  a  few  days'  heat 
and  thirst.  A  poor,  useless  rag." 

He  spoke  in  a  low  voice,  very  slowly,  each  word 
dropping  distinct  and  separate.  His  lowering  ex 
pression,  his  steady  gaze,  his  deliberate  speech, 
spoke  of  mental  forces  in  abeyance.  It  was  another 
man,  not  the  Courant  she  knew. 

She  tried  to  quell  her  tremors  by  simulating  in 
dignation.  If  her  breathing  shook  her  breast  into 
an  agitation  he  could  see,  the  look  she  kept  on  him 
was  bold  and  defiant. 

"  Don't  speak  of  him  that  way,"  she  cried  scram 
bling  to  her  feet.  "  Keep  what  you  think  to  your 
self." 

"  And  what  do  you  think  ?  "  he  said  and  moved 
forward  toward  her. 

377 


The  Emigrant  Trail 

She  made  no  answer,  and  it  was  very  silent  in 
the  cleft.  As  he  came  nearer  the  grasses  crackling 
under  his  soft  tread  were  the  only  sound.  She  saw 
that  his  face  was  pale  under  the  tan,  the  nostrils 
slightly  dilated.  Stepping  with  a  careful  lightness, 
his  movements  suggested  a  carefully  maintained  ad 
justment,  a  being  quivering  in  a  breathless  balance. 
She  backed  away  till  she  stood  pressed  against  the 
rock.  She  felt  her  thoughts  scattering  and  made 
an  effort  to  hold  them  as  though  grasping  at  tangi 
ble,  escaping  things. 

He  stopped  close  to  her,  and  neither  spoke  for  a 
moment,  eye  hard  on  eye,  then  hers  shifted  and 
dropped. 

"  You  think  about  him  as  I  do,"  said  the  man. 

"  No,"  she  answered,  "  no/'  but  her  voice  showed 
uncertainty. 

"  Why  don't  you  tell  the  truth  ?  Why  do  you 
lie?" 

"  No,"  this  time  the  word  was  hardly  audible, 
and  she  tried  to  impress  it  by  shaking  her  head. 

He  made  a  step  toward  her  and  seized  one  of  her 
hands.  She  tried  to  tear  it  away  and  flattened  her 
self  against  the  rock,  panting,  her  face  gone  white 
as  the  alkaline  patches  of  the  desert. 

"  You  don't  love  him.     You  never  did." 

She  shook  her  head  again,  gasping.  "  Let  me 
out  of  here.  Let  go  of  me." 

"  You  liar,"  he  whispered.    "  You  love  me." 

She  could  not  answer,  her  knees  shaking,  the 
place  blurring  on  her  sight.  Through  a  sick  dizzi- 

378 


The  Desert 

ness  she  saw  nothing  but  his  altered  face.  He 
reached  for  the  other  hand,  spread  flat  against  the 
stone,  and  as  she  felt  his  grasp  upon  it,  her  words 
came  in  broken  pleading: 

"  Yes,  yes,  it's  true.  I  do.  But  I've  promised. 
Let  me  go." 

"  Then  come  to  me,"  he  said  huskily  and  tried 
to  wrench  her  forward  into  his  arms. 

She  held  herself  rigid,  braced  against  the  wall, 
and  tearing  one  hand  free,  raised  it,  palm  out,  be 
tween  his  face  and  hers. 

"  No,  no!  My  father — I  promised  him.  I  can't 
tell  David  now.  I  will  later.  Don't  hold  me.  Let 
me  go." 

The  voice  of  Daddy  John  came  clear  from  out 
side.  "Missy!  Hullo,  Missy!  Where  are  you?" 

She  sent  up  the  old  man's  name  in  a  quavering 
cry  and  the  mountain  man  dropped  her  arm  and 
stepped  back. 

She  ran  past  him,  and  at  the  mouth  of  the  open 
ing,  stopped  and  leaned  on  a  ledge,  getting  her 
breath  and  trying  to  control  her  trembling.  Daddy 
John  was  coming  through  the  sage,  a  jack  rabbit 
held  up  in  one  hand. 

"  Here's  your  supper,"  he  cried  jubilant.  "  Ain't 
I  told  you  I'd  get  it  ?  " 

She  moved  forward  to  meet  him,  walking  slowly. 
When  he  saw  her  face,  concern  supplanted  his  tri 
umph. 

E<  We  got  to  get  you  out  of  this,"  he  said. 
'  You're  as  peaked  as  one  of  them  frontier  women 
379 


The  Emigrant  Trail 

in  sunbonnets,"  and  he  tried  to  hook  a  compassion 
ate  hand  in  her  arm.  But  she  edged  away  from 
him,  fearful  that  he  would  feel  her  trembling,  and 
answered : 

"  It's  the  heat.  It  seems  to  draw  the  strength  all 
out  of  me." 

"  The  rabbit'll  put  some  of  it  back.  I'll  go  and 
get  things  started.  You  sit  by  David  and  rest  up," 
and  he  skurried  away  to  the  camp. 

She  went  to  David,  lying  now  with  opened  eyes 
and  hands  clasped  beneath  his  head.  When  her 
shadow  fell  across  him  he  turned  a  brightened  face 
on  her. 

"  I'm  better,"  he  said.  "  If  I  could  get  some 
water  I  think  I'd  soon  be  all  right." 

She  stood  looking  down  on  him  with  a  clouded, 
almost  sullen,  expression. 

"  Did  you  sleep  long?  "  she  asked  for  something 
to  say. 

"  I  don't  know  how  long.  A  little  while  ago  I 
woke  up  and  looked  for  you,  but  you  weren't  any 
where  round,  so  I  just  lay  here  and  looked  out  across 
to  the  mountains  and  began  to  think  of  California. 
I  haven't  thought  about  it  for  a  long  while." 

She  sat  down  by  him  and  listened  as  he  told  her 
his  thoughts.  With  a  renewal  of  strength  the  old 
dreams  had  come  back — the  cabin  by  the  river,  the 
garden  seeds  to  be  planted,  and  now  added  to  them 
was  the  gold  they  were  to  find.  She  hearkened  with 
unresponsive  apathy.  The  repugnance  to  this  mu 
tually  shared  future  which  had  once  made  her  re- 

380 


The  Desert 

coil  from  it  was  a  trivial  thing  to  the  abhorrence 
of  it  that  was  now  hers.  Dislikes  had  become  loath 
ings,  a  girl's  whims,  a  woman's  passions.  As 
David  babbled  on  she  kept  her  eyes  averted,  for  she 
knew  that  in  them  her  final  withdrawal  shone 
coldly.  Her  thoughts  kept  reverting  to  the  scene 
in  the  cleft,  and  when  she  tore  them  from  it  and 
forced  them  back  on  him,  her  conscience  awoke  and 
gnawed.  She  could  no  more  tell  this  man,  return 
ing  to  life  and  love  of  her,  than  she  could  kill  him 
as  he  lay  there  defenseless  and  trusting. 

At  supper  they  measured  out  the  water,  half  a 
cup  for  each.  There  still  remained  a  few  inches  in 
the  cask.  This  was  to  be  hoarded  against  the  next 
day.  If  Courant  on  his  night  journey  could  not 
strike  the  upper  trail  and  a  spring  they  would  have 
to  retrace  their  steps,  and  by  this  route,  with  the 
animals  exhausted  and  their  own  strength  dimin 
ished,  the  first  water  was  a  twelve  hours'  march  off. 
Susan  and  Courant  were  silent,  avoiding  each 
other's  eyes,  torpid  to  the  outward  observation. 
But  the  old  man  was  unusually  garrulous,  evidently 
attempting  to  raise  their  lowered  spirits.  He  had 
much  to  say  about  California  and  the  gold  there, 
speculated  on  their  chances  of  fortune,  and  then 
carried  his  speculations  on  to  the  joys  of  wealth 
and  a  future  in  which  Susan  was  to  say  with  the 
Biblical  millionaire,  "  Now  soul  take  thine  ease." 
She  rewarded  him  with  a  quick  smile,  then  tipped 
her  cup  till  the  bottom  faced  the  sky,  and  let  the 
last  drop  run  into  her  mouth. 

381 


The  Emigrant  Trail 

The  night  was  falling  when  Courant  rode  out. 
She  passed  him  as  he  was  mounting,  the  canteen 
strapped  to  the  back  of  his  saddle.  "  Good-by,  and 
good  luck/'  she  said  in  a  low  voice  as  she  brushed 
by.  His  "  good-by  "  came  back  to  her  instilled 
with  a  new  meaning.  The  reserve  between  them 
was  gone.  Separated  as  the  poles,  they  had  sud 
denly  entered  within  the  circle  of  an  intimacy  that 
had  snapped  round  them  and  shut  them  in.  Her 
surroundings  fell  into  far  perspective,  losing  their 
menace.  She  did  not  care  where  she  was  or  how 
she  fared.  An  indifference  to  all  that  had  seemed 
unbearable,  uplifted  her.  It  was  like  an  emergence 
from  cramped  confines  to  wide,  inspiring  spaces. 
He  and  she  were  there — the  rest  was  nothing. 

Sitting  beside  David  she  could  see  the  rider's  fig 
ure  grow  small,  as  it  receded  across  the  plain.  The 
night  had  come  and  the  great  level  brooded  solemn 
under  the  light  of  the  first,  serene  stars.  In  the 
middle  of  the  camp  Daddy  John's  fire  flared,  the 
central  point  of  illumination  in  a  ring  of  fluctuant 
yellow.  Touched  and  lost  by  its  waverings  the  old 
man's  figure  came  and  went,  absorbed  in  outer 
darkness,  then  revealed  his  arms  extended  round 
sheaves  of  brush.  David  turned  and  lay  on  his  side 
looking  at  her.  Her  knees  were  drawn  up,  her 
hands  clasped  round  her  ankles.  With  the  ragged 
detail  of  her  dress  obscured,  the  line  of  her  profile 
and  throat  sharp  in  clear  silhouette  against  the  saf 
fron  glow,  she  was  like  a  statue  carved  in  black 
marble.  He  could  not  see  what  her  glance  fol- 

382 


The  Desert 

lowed,  only  felt  the  consolation  of  her  presence,  the 
one  thing  to  which  he  could  turn  and  meet  a  hu 
man  response. 

He  was  feverish  again,  his  thirst  returned  in  an 
insatiable  craving.  Moving  restlessly  he  flung  out 
a  hand  toward  her  and  said  querulously : 

"  How  long  will  Low  be  gone  ?  " 

1  Till  the  morning  unless  he  finds  water  by  the 


way." 


Silence  fell  on  him  and  her  eyes  strained  through 
the  darkness  for  the  last  glimpse  of  the  rider.  He 
sighed  deeply,  the  hot  hand  stirring  till  it  lay  spread, 
with  separated  fingers  on  the  hem  of  her  dress.  He 
moved  each  finger,  their  brushing  on  the  cloth  the 
only  sound. 

"  Are  you  in  pain  ?  "  she  asked  and  shrunk  be 
fore  the  coldness  of  her  voice. 

"  No,  but  I  am  dying  with  thirst." 

She  made  no  answer,  resting  in  her  graven  quiet 
ness.  The  night  had  closed  upon  the  rider's  figure, 
but  she  watched  where  it  had  been.  Over  a  black 
ened  peak  a  large  star  soared  up  like  a  bright  eye 
spying  on  the  waste.  Suddenly  the  hand  clinched 
and  he  struck  down  at  the  earth  with  it. 

"  I  can't  go  without  water  till  the  morning." 

'  Try  to  sleep,"  she  said.  "  We  must  stand  it 
the  best  way  we  can." 

"  I  can't  sleep." 

He  moaned  and  turned  over  on  his  face  and  ly 
ing  thus  rolled  from  side  to  side  as  if  in  anguish 
that  movement  assuaged.  For  the  first  time  she 

383 


The  Emigrant  Trail 

looked  at  him,  turning  upon  him  a  glance  of  ques 
tioning  anxiety.  She  could  see  his  narrow,  angu 
lar  shape,  the  legs  twisted,  the  arms  bent  for  a  pil 
low,  upon  which  his  head  moved  in  restless  pain. 

"  David,  we've  got  to  wait." 

"  The  night  through  ?  Stay  this  way  till  morn 
ing?  I'll  be  dead.  I  wish  I  was  now." 

She  looked  away  from  him  seized  by  temptation 
that  rose  from  contrition  not  pity. 

"  If  you  cared  for  me  you  could  get  it.  Low's 
certain  to  find  a  spring." 

"  Very  well.  I  will,"  she  said  and  rose  to  her 
feet. 

She  moved  softly  to  the  camp  the  darkness  hid 
ing  her.  Daddy  John  was  taking  a  cat  nap  by  the 
fire,  a  barrier  of  garnered  sage  behind  him.  She 
knew  his  sleep  was  light  and  stole  with  a  tiptoe 
tread  to  the  back  of  the  wagon  where  the  water 
cask  stood.  She  drew  off  a  cupful,  then,  her  eye 
alert  on  the  old  man,  crept  back  to  David.  When 
he  saw  her  coming  he  sat  up  with  a  sharp  breath  of 
satisfaction,  and  she  knelt  beside  him  and  held  the 
cup  to  his  lips.  He  drained  it  and  sank  back  in  a 
collapse  of  relief,  muttering  thanks  that  she  hushed, 
fearful  of  the  old  man.  Then  she  again  took  her 
seat  beside  him.  She  saw  Daddy  John  get  up  and 
pile  the  fire  high,  and  watched  its  leaping  flame 
throw  out  tongues  toward  the  stars. 

Midnight  was  past  when  David  \voke  and  again 
begged  for  water.  This  time  she  went  for  it  with 
out  urging.  When  he  had  settled  into  rest  she  con- 

384 


The  Desert 

tinned  her  watch  peaceful  at  the  thought  that  she 
had  given  him  what  was  hers  and  Courant's. 
Reparation  of  a  sort  had  been  made.  Her  mind 
could  fly  without  hindrance  into  the  wilderness  with 
the  lonely  horseman.  It  was  a  luxury  like  dearly 
bought  freedom,  and  she  sat  on  lost  in  it,  abandoned 
to  a  reverie  as  deep  and  solemn  as  the  night. 


385 


CHAPTER    IV 

SHE  woke  when  the  sun  shot  its  first  rays  into 
her  eyes.  David  lay  near  by,  breathing  lightly,  his 
face  like  a  pale  carven  mask  against  the  blanket's 
folds.  Down  below  in  the  camp  the  fire  burned 
low,  its  flame  looking  ineffectual  and  tawdry  in'  the 
flushed  splendor  of  the  sunrise.  Daddy  John  was 
astir,  moving  about  among  the  animals  and  paus 
ing  to  rub  Julia's  nose  and  hearten  her  up  with 
hopeful  words. 

Susan  mounted  to  a  ledge  and  scanned  the  dis 
tance.  Her  figure  caught  the  old  man's  eye  and  he 
hailed  her  for  news.  Nothing  yet,  she  signaled 
back,  then  far  on  the  plain's  rose-brown  limit  saw 
a  dust  blur  and  gave  a  cry  that  brought  him  run 
ning  and  carried  him  in  nimble  ascent  to  her  side. 
His  old  eyes  could  see  nothing.  She  had  to  point 
the  direction  with  a  finger  that  shook. 

"  There,  there.  It's  moving — far  away,  as  if  a 
drop  of  water  had  been  spilled  on  a  picture  and 
made  a  tiny  blot." 

They  watched  till  a  horseman  grew  from  the 
nebulous  spot.  Then  they  climbed  down  and  ran 
to  the  camp,  got  out  the  breakfast  things  and  threw 
brush  on  the  fire,  speaking  nothing  but  the  essen 
tial  word,  for  hope  and  fear  racked  them.  When 

386 


The  Desert 

he  was  within  hail  Daddy  John  ran  to  meet  him, 
but  she  stayed  where  she  was,  her  hands  making 
useless  darts  among  the  pans,  moistening  her  lips 
that  they  might  frame  speech  easily  when  he  came. 
With  down-bent  head  she  heard  his  voice  hoarse 
from  a  dust-dried  throat:  he  had  found  the  trail 
and  near  it  a  spring,  the  cask  he  carried  was  full, 
it  would  last  them  for  twelve  hours.  But  the  way 
was  heavy  and  the  animals  were  too  spent  for  a 
day's  march  in  such  heat.  They  would  not  start  till 
evening  and  would  journey  through  the  night. 

She  heard  his  feet  brushing  toward  her  through 
the  sage,  and  smelled  the  dust  and  sweat  upon  him 
as  he  drew  up  beside  her.  She  was  forced  to  raise 
her  eyes  and  murmur  a  greeting.  It  was  short  and 
cold,  and  Daddy  John  marveled  at  the  ways  of 
women,  who  welcomed  a  man  from  such  labors  as 
if  he  had  been  to  the  creek  and  brought  up  a  pail 
of  water.  His  face,  gaunt  and  grooved  with  lines, 
made  her  heart  swell  with  the  pity  she  had  so  freely 
given  David,  and  the  passion  that  had  never  been 
his.  There  was  no  maternal  softness  in  her  now. 
The  man  beside  her  was  no  helpless  creature  claim 
ing  her  aid,  but  a  conqueror  upon  whom  she  leaned 
and  in  whom  she  gloried. 

After  he  had  eaten  he  drew  a  saddle  back  into  the 
rock's  shade,  spread  a  blanket  and  threw  himself 
on  it.  Almost  before  he  had  composed  his  body 
in  comfort  he  was  asleep,  one  arm  thrown  over  his 
head,  his  sinewy  neck  outstretched,  his  chest  ris 
ing  and  falling  in  even  breaths. 

387 


The  Emigrant  Trail 

At  noon  Daddy  John  in  broaching  the  cask  dis 
covered  the  deficit  in  the  water  supply.  She  came 
upon  the  old  man  with  the  half-filled  coffee-pot  in 
his  hand  staring  down  at  its  contents  with  a  puz 
zled  face.  She  stood  watching  him,  guilty  as  a 
thievish  child,  the  color  mounting  to  her  forehead. 
He  looked  up  and  in  his  eyes  she  read  the  shock 
of  his  suspicions.  Delicacy  kept  him  silent,  and 
as  he  rinsed  the  water  round  in  the  pot  his 
own  face  reddened  in  a  blush  for  the  girl  he 
had  thought  strong  in  honor  and  self-denial  as  he 
was. 

"  I  took  it,"  she  said  slowly. 

He  had  to  make  allowances,  not  only  to  her,  but 
to  himself.  He  felt  that  he  must  reassure  her,  keep 
her  from  feeling  shame  for  the  first  underhand  act 
he  had  ever  known  her  commit.  So  he  spoke 
with  all  the  cheeriness  he  could  command : 

"  I  guess  you  needed  it  pretty  bad.  Turning  out 
as  it  has  I'm  glad  you  done  it." 

She  saw  he 'thought  she  had  taken  it  for  herself, 
and  experienced  relief  in  the  consciousness  of  un 
just  punishment. 

"  You  were  asleep/'  she  said,  "  and  I  came  down 
and  took  it  twice." 

He  did  not  look  at  her  for  he  could  not  bear  to 
see  her  humiliation.  It  was  his  affair  to  lighten 
her  self-reproach. 

"  Well,  that  was  all  right.  You're  the  only  wom 
an  among  us,  and  you've  got  to  be  kept  up." 

"  I — I — couldn't  stand  it  any  longer,"   she  fal- 

388 


The  Desert 

tered  now,  wanting  to  justify  herself.  "  It  was  too 
much  to  bear." 

"  Don't  say  no  more,"  he  said  tenderly.  "  Ain't 
you  only  a  little  girl  put  up  against  things  that  'ud 
break  the  spirit  of  a  strong  man?  " 

The  pathos  of  his  efforts  to  excuse  her  shook  her 
guarded  self-control.  She  suddenly  put  her  face 
against  his  shoulder  in  a  lonely  dreariness.  He 
made  a  backward  gesture  with  his  head  that  he 
might  toss  off  his  hat  and  lay  his  cheek  on  her  hair. 

'  There,  there,"  he  muttered  comfortingly. 
"  Don't  go  worrying  about  that.  You  ain't  done 
no  harm.  It's  just  as  natural  for  you  to  have  taken 
it  as  for  you  to  go  to  sleep  when  you're  tired.  And 
there's  not  a  soul  but  you  and  me'll  ever  know  it, 
and  we'll  forget  by  to-night." 

His  simple  words,  reminiscent  of  gentler  days, 
when  tragic  problems  lay  beyond  the  confines  of 
imagination,  loosed  the  tension  of  her  mood,  and 
she  clasped  her  arms  about  him,  trembling  and 
shaken.  He  patted  her  with  his  free  hand,  the 
coffee-pot  in  the  other,  thinking  her  agitation  mere 
ly  an  expression  of  fatigue,  with  no  more  knowl 
edge  of  its  complex  provocation  than  he  had  of  the 
mighty  throes  that  had  once  shaken  the  blighted 
land  on  which  they  stood. 

David  was  better,  much  better,  he  declared,  and 
proved  it  by  helping  clear  the  camp  and  pack  the 
wagon  for  the  night  march.  He  was  kneeling  by 
Daddy  John,  who  was  folding  the  blankets,  when 
he  said  suddenly: 


The  Emigrant  Trail 

"  If  I  hadn't  got  water  I  think  I'd  have  died  last 
night." 

The  old  man,  stopped  in  his  folding  to  turn  a 
hardening  face  on  him. 

"  Water?  "  he  said.     "  How'd  you  get  it?  " 

"  Susan  did.  I  told  her  I  couldn't  stand  it,  and 
she  went  down  twice  to  the  wagon  and  brought  it 
to  me.  I  was  at  the  end  of  my  rope." 

Daddy  John  said  nothing.  His  ideas  were  re 
adjusting  themselves  to  a  new  point  of  view. 
When  they  were  established  his  Missy  was  back 
upon  her  pedestal,  a  taller  one  than  ever  before, 
and  David  was  once  and  for  all  in  the  dust  at  its 
feet. 

"  There's  no  one  like  Susan,"  the  lover  went  on, 
now  with  returning  forces,  anxious  to  give  the 
mead  of  praise  where  it  was  due.  "  She  tried  to 
talk  me  out  of  it,  and  then  when  she  saw  I  couldn't 
stand  it  she  just  went  quietly  off  and  got  it." 

"  I  guess  you  could  have  held  out  till  the  morning 
if  you'd  put  your  mind  to  it,"  said  the  old  man 
dryly,  rising  with  the  blankets. 

For  the  moment  he  despised  David  almost  as  bit 
terly  as  Courant  did.  It  was  not  alone  the  weak 
ness  so  frankly  admitted ;  it  was  that  his  action  had 
made  Daddy  John  harbor  secret  censure  of  the  be 
ing  dearest  to  him.  The  old  man  could  have  spat 
upon  him.  He  moved  away  for  fear  of  the  words 
that  trembled  on  his  tongue.  And  another  and 
deeper  pain  tormented  him — that  his  darling 
should  so  love  this  feeble  creature  that  she 

39° 


The  Desert 

could  steal  for  him  and  take  the  blame  of  his  mis 
deeds.  This  was  the  man  to  whom  she  had  given 
her  heart!  He  found  himself  wishing  that  David 
had  never  come  back  from  his  search  for  the  lost 
horses.  Then  the  other  man,  the  real  man  that  was 
her  fitting  mate,  could  have  won  her. 

At  sunset  the  train  was  ready.  Every  article  that 
could  be  dispensed  with  was  left,  a  rich  find  for 
the  Indians  whose  watch  fires  winked  from  the  hills. 
To  the  cry  of  "  Roll  out,"  and  the  snap  of  the  long 
whip,  the  wagon  lurched  into  motion,  the  thirst- 
racked  animals  straining  doggedly  as  it  crunched 
over  sage  stalks  and  dragged  through  powdery 
hummocks.  The  old  man  walked  by  the  wheel,  the 
long  lash  of  his  whip  thrown  afar,  flashing  in  the 
upper  light  and  descending  in  a  lick  of  flame  on 
the  mules'  gray  flanks.  With  each  blow  fell  a 
phrase  of  encouragement,  the  words  of  a  friend 
who  wounds  and  wounding  himself  suffers.  David 
rode  at  the  rear  with  Susan.  The  two  men  had 
told  him  he  must  ride  if  he  died  for  it,  and  met  his 
offended  answer  that  he  intended  to  do  so  with 
sullen  silence.  In  advance,  Courant's  figure  brushed 
between  the  bushes,  his  hair  a  moving  patch  of  cop 
per  color  in  the  last  light. 

Darkness  quickly  gathered  round  them.  The 
bowl  of  sky  became  an  intense  Prussian  blue  that 
the  earth  reflected.  In  this  clear,  deep  color  the 
wagon  hood  showed  a  pallid  arch,  and  the  shapes 
of  man  and  beast  were  defined  in  shaclowless  black. 
In  the  west  a  band  of  lemon-color  lingered,  and 

391 


The  Emigrant  Trail 

above  the  stars  began  to  prick  through,  great  scin- 
tillant  sparks,  that  looked,  for  all  their  size,  much 
farther  away  than  the  stars  of  the  peopled  places. 
Their  light  seemed  caught  and  held  in  aerial  gulfs 
above  the  earth,  making  the  heavens  clear,  while 
the  night  clung  close  and  undisturbed  to  the  plain's 
face.  Once  from  afar  the  cry  of  an  animal  arose, 
a  long,  swelling  howl,  but  around  the  train  all  was 
still  save  for  the  crackling  of  the  crushed  sage 
stalks,  and  the  pad  of  hoofs. 

It  was  near  midnight  when  Susan's  voice  sum 
moned  Daddy  John.  The  wagon  halted,  and  she 
beckoned  him  with  a  summoning  arm.  He  ran  to 
her,  circling  the  bushes  with  a  youth's  alertness, 
and  stretched  up  to  hear  her  as  she  bent  from  the 
saddle.  David  must  go  in  the  wagon,  he  was  unable 
to  ride  longer.  The  old  man  swept  him  with  a  look 
of  inspection.  The  starlight  showed  a  drooping 
figure,  the  face  hidden  by  the  shadow  of  his  hat 
brim.  The  mules  were  at  the  limit  of  their  strength, 
and  the  old  man  demurred,  swearing  under  his 
breath  and  biting  his  nails. 

"  You've  got  to  take  him,"  she  said,  "  if  it  kills 
them.  He  would  have  fallen  off  a  minute  ago  if  I 
hadn't  put  my  arm  around  him." 

"  Come  on,  then,"  he  answered  with  a  surly  look 
at  David.  "  Come  on  and  ride,  while  the  rest  of 
us  get  along  the  best  way  we  can." 

"  He  can't  help  it,"  she  urged  in  an  angry  whis 
per.  "  You  talk  as  if  he  was  doing  it  on  pur 
pose." 

392 


The  Desert 

David  slid  off  his  horse  and  made  for  the  wagon 
with  reeling  steps.  The  other  man  followed  mut 
tering. 

"  Help  him,"  she  called.  "  Don't  you  see  he  can 
hardly  stand?" 

At  the  wagon  wheel  Daddy  John  hoisted  him  in 
with  vigorous  and  ungentle  hands.  Crawling  into 
the  back  the  sick  man  fell  prone  with  a  groan. 
Courant,  who  had  heard  them  and  turned  to  watch, 
came  riding  up. 

"What  is  it?"  he  said  sharply.  "The  mules 
given  out  ?  " 

"  Not  they,"  snorted  Daddy  John,  at  once  all 
belligerent  loyalty  to  Julia  and  her  mates,  "  it's  this 
d — d  cry  baby  again,"  and  he  picked  up  the  reins 
exclaiming  in  tones  of  fond  urgence : 

"  Come  now,  off  again.  Keep  up  your  heart. 
There's  water  and  grass  ahead.  Up  there,  Julia, 
honey!" 

The  long  team,  crouching  in  the  effort  to  start 
the  wagon,  heaved  it  forward,  and  the  old  man, 
leaping  over  the  broken  sage,  kept  the  pace  beside 
them.  Courant,  a  few  feet  in  advance,  said  over  his 
shoulder : 

"  What's  wrong  with  him  now  ?  " 

"  Oh,  played  out,  I  guess.  She,"  with  a  backward 
jerk  of  his  head,  "  won't  have  it  any  other  way. 
No  good  telling  her  it's  nerve  not  body  that  he  ain't 
got." 

The  mountain  man  looked  back  toward  the  path 
way  between  the  slashed  and  broken  bushes.  He 

393 


The  Emigrant  Trail 

could  see  Susan's  solitary  figure,  David's  horse  fol 
lowing. 

"  What's  she  mind  for?  "  he  said. 

"  Because  she's  a  woman  and  they're  made  that 
way.  She's  more  set  on  that  chump  than  she'd  be 
on  the  finest  man  you  could  bring  her  if  you  hunted 
the  world  over  for  him." 

They  fared  on  in  silence,  the  soft  soil  muffling 
their  steps.  The  wagon  lurched  on  a  hummock  and 
David  groaned. 

"Are  you  meaning  she  cares  for  him?"  asked 
Courant. 

"  All  her  might,"  answered  the  old  man.  "  Ain't 
she  goin'  to  marry  the  varmint  ?  " 

It  was  an  hour  for  understanding,  no  matter  how 
bitter.  Daddy  John's  own  dejection  made  him  un 
sparing.  He  offered  his  next  words  as  confirma 
tion  of  a  condition  that  he  thought  would  kill  all 
hope  in  the  heart  of  the  leader. 

"  Last  night  he  made  her  get  him  water — the 
store  we  had  left  if  you  hadn't  found  any.  Twict 
in  the  night  while  I  was  asleep  she  took  and  gave 
it  to  him.  Then  when  I  found  it  out  she  let  me 
think  she  took  it  for  herself,"  he  spat  despondently. 
"  She  the  same  as  lied  for  him.  I  don't  want  to 
hear  no  more  after  that." 

The  mountain  man  rode  with  downdrooped 
head.  Daddy  John,  who  did  not  know  what  he  did, 
might  well  come  to  such  conclusions.  He  knew 
the  secret  of  the  girl's  contradictory  actions.  He 
looked  into  her  perturbed  spirit  and  saw  how  des- 

394 


The  Desert 

perately  she  clung  to  the  letter  of  her  obligation, 
while  she  repudiated  the  spirit.  Understanding 
her  solicitude  for  David,  he  knew  that  it  was 
strengthened  by  the  consciousness  of  her  disloy 
alty.  But  he  felt  no  tenderness  for  these  distracted 
feminine  waverings.  It  exhilarated  him  to  think 
that  while  she  held  to  the  betrothed  of  her  father's 
choice  and  the  bond  of  her  given  word,  her  hold 
would  loosen  at  his  wish  As  he  had  felt  toward, 
enemies  that  he  had  conquered — crushed  and  sub 
jected  by  his  will — he  felt  toward  her.  It  was  a 
crowning  joy  to  know  that  he  could  make  her 
break  her  promise,  turn  her  from  her  course  of  des 
perate  fidelity,  and  make  her  his  own,  not  against 
her  inclination,  but  against  her  pity,  her  honor,  her 
conscience. 

The  spoor  left  by  his  horse  the  night  before  was 
clear  in  the  starlight.  He  told  Daddy  John  to  follow 
it  and  drew  up  beside  the  track  to  let  the  wagon  pass 
him.  Motionless  he  watched  the  girl's  approaching 
figure,  and  saw  her  rein  her  horse  to  a  standstill. 

"  Come  on,"  he  said  softly.  "  I  want  to  speak 
to  you." 

She  touched  the  horse  and  it  started  toward  him. 
As  she  came  nearer  he  could  see  the  troubled  shine 
of  her  eyes. 

"  Why  are  you  afraid  ?  "  he  said,  as  he  fell  into 
place  beside  her.  "  We're  friends  now." 

She  made  no  answer,  her  head  bent  till  her  face 
was  hidden  by  her  hat.  He  laid  his  hand  on  her 
rein  and  brought  the  animal  to  a  halt. 

395 


The  Emigrant  Trail 

"  Let  the  wagon  get  on  ahead,"  he  whispered. 
"  We'll  follow  at  a  distance." 

The  whisper,  so  low  that  the  silence  was  un 
broken  by  it,  came  to  her,  a  clear  sound  carrying 
with  it  a  thrill  of  understanding.  She  trembled 
and — his  arm  against  hers  as  his  hand  held  her  rein 
—he  felt  the  subdued  vibration  like  the  quivering 
of  a  frightened  animal.  The  wagon  lumbered  away 
with  the  sifting  dust  gushing  from  the  wheels.  A 
stirred  cloud  rose  upon  its  wake  and  they  could 
feel  it  thick  and  stifling  in  their  nostrils.  She 
watched  the  receding  arch  cut  down  the  back  by  the 
crack  in  the  closed  canvas,  while  he  watched  her. 
The  sound  of  crushed  twigs  and  straining  wheels 
lessened,  the  stillness  gathered  between  these  noises 
of  laboring  life  and  the  two  mounted  figures.  As 
it  settled  each  could  hear  the  other's  breathing  and 
feel  a  mutual  throb,  as  though  the  same  leaping 
artery  fed  them  both.  In  the  blue  night  encircled 
by  the  waste,  they  were  as  still  as  vessels  balanced 
to  a  hair  in  which  passion  brimmed  to  the  edge. 

"  Come  on,"  she  said  huskily,  and  twitched  her 
reins  from  his  hold. 

The  horses  started,  walking  slowly.  A  strip  of 
mangled  sage  lay  in  front,  back  of  them  the  heavens 
hung,  a  star-strewn  curtain.  It  seemed  to  the  man 
and  woman  that  they  were  the  only  living  things 
in  the  world,  its  people,  its  sounds,  its  interests, 
were  in  some  undescried  distance  where  life  pro 
gressed  with  languid  pulses.  How  long  the  silence 
lasted  neither  knew.  He  broke  it  with  a  whisper : 

396 


The  Desert 

"  Why  did  you  get  David  the  water  last  night?  " 

Her  answer  came  so  low  he  had  to  bend  to 
hear  it. 

"  He  wanted  it.     I  had  to." 

"  Why  do  you  give  him  all  he  asks  for  ?  David 
is  nothing  to  you." 

This  time  no  answer  came,  and  he  stretched  his 
hand  and  clasped  the  pommel  of  her  saddle.  The 
horses,  feeling  the  pull  of  the  powerful  arm,  drew 
together.  His  knee  pressed  on  the  shoulder  of  her 
pony,  and  feeling  him  almost  against  her  she  bent 
sideways,  flinching  from  the  contact. 

"  Why  do  you  shrink  from  me,  Missy  ?  " 

"  I'm  afraid,"  she  whispered. 

They  paced  on  for  a  moment  in  silence.  When 
he  tried  to  speak  his  lips  were  stiff,  and  he  moistened 
them  to  murmur : 

"Of  what?" 

She  shrunk  still  further  and  raised  a  hand  be 
tween  them.  He  snatched  at  it,  pulling  it  down, 
saying  hoarsely: 

"Of  me?" 

"  Of  something — I  don't  know  what.  Of  some 
thing  terrible  and  strange." 

She  tried  to  strike  at  her  horse  with  the  reins,  but 
the  man's  hand  dropped  like  a  hawk  on  the  pommel 
and  drew  the  tired  animal  back  to  the  foot  pace. 

"  If  you  love  me  there's  no  need  of  fear,"  he  said, 
then  waited,  the  sound  of  her  terrified  breathing 
like  the  beating  of  waves  in  his  ears,  and  murmured 
lower  than  before,  "  And  you  love  me.  I  know  it." 

397 


The  Emigrant  Trail 

Her  face  showed  in  dark  profile  against  the  deep 
sky.  He  stared  at  it,  then  suddenly  set  his  teeth 
and  gave  the  pommel  a  violent  jerk  that  made  the 
horse  stagger  and  grind  against  its  companion. 
The  creaking  of  the  wagon  came  faint  from  a  wake 
of  shadowy  trail. 

'  You've  done  it  for  weeks.  Before  you  knew. 
Before  you  lied  to  your  father  when  he  tried  to 
make  you  marry  David." 

She  dropped  the  reins  and  clinched  her  hands 
against  her  breast,  a  movement  of  repression  and 
also  of  pleading  to  anything  that  would  protect  her, 
any  force  that  wrould  give  her  strength  to  fight,  not 
the  man  alone,  but  herself.  But  the  will  was  not 
within  her.  The  desert  grew  dim,  the  faint  sounds 
from  the  wagon  faded.  Like  a  charmed  bird,  star 
ing  straight  before  it,  mute  and  enthralled,  she 
rocked  lightly  to  left  and  right,  and  then  swayed 
toward  him. 

The  horse,  feeling  the  dropped  rein,  stopped, 
jerking  its  neck  forward  in  the  luxury  of  rest,  its 
companion  coming  to  a  standstill  beside  it.  Cou- 
rant  raised  himself  in  his  saddle  and  gathered  her 
in  an  embrace  that  crushed  her  against  his  bony 
frame,  then  pressed  against  her  face  with  his,  till 
he  pushed  it  upward  and  could  see  it,  white,  with 
closed  eyes,  on  his  shoulder.  He  bent  till  his  long 
hair  mingled  with  hers  and  laid  his  lips  on  her 
mouth  with  the  clutch  of  a  bee  on  a  flower. 

They  stood  a  compact  silhouette,  clear  in  the 
luminous  starlight.  The  crack  in  the  canvas  that 

398 


The  Desert 

covered  the  wagon  back  widened  and  the  eye  that 
had  been  watching  them,  stared  bright  and  wide, 
as  if  all  the  life  of  the  feeble  body  had  concentrated 
in  that  one  organ  of  sense.  The  hands,  damp  and 
trembling,  drew  the  canvas  edges  closer,  but  left 
space  enough  for  the  eye  to  dwell  on  this  vision  of 
a  shattered  world.  It  continued  to  gaze  as  Susan 
slid  from  the  encircling  arms,  dropped  from  her 
horse,  and  came  running  forward,  stumbling  on  the 
fallen  bushes,  as  she  ran  panting  out  the  old  serv 
ant's  name.  Then  it  went  back  to  the  mountain 
man,  a  black  shape  in  the  loneliness  of  the  night. 


399 


CHAPTER    V 

A  SLOWLY  lightening  sky,  beneath  it  the  trans 
parent  sapphire  of  the  desert  wakening  to  the  dawn, 
and  cutting  the  blue  expanse  the  line  of  the  new 
trail.  A  long  butte,  a  bristling  outline  on  the  pal 
ing  north,  ran  out  from  a  crumpled  clustering  of 
hills,  and  the  road  bent  to  meet  it.  The  air  came 
from  it  touched  with  a  cooling  freshness,  and  as 
they  pressed  toward  it  they  saw  the  small,  swift 
shine  of  water,  a  little  pool,  grass-ringed,  with 
silver  threads  creeping  to  the  sands. 

They  drank  and  then  slept,  sinking  to  oblivion  as 
they  dropped  on  the  ground,  not  waiting  to  undo 
their  blankets  or  pick  out  comfortable  spots.  The 
sun,  lifting  a  bright  eye  above  the  earth's  rim,  shot 
its  long  beams  over  their  motionless  figures,  "  bun 
dles  of  life,"  alone  in  a  lifeless  world. 

David  alone  could  not  rest.  Withdrawn  from 
the  others  he  lay  in  the  shadow  of  the  wagon, 
watching  small  points  in  the  distance  with  a  glance 
that  saw  nothing.  All  sense  of  pain  and  weakness 
had  left  him.  Physically  he  felt  strangely  light  and 
free  of  sensation.  With  his  brain  endowed  with 
an  abnormal  activity  he  suffered  an  agony  of  spirit 
so  poignant  that  there  were  moments  when  he  drew 
back  and  looked  at  himself  wondering  how  he  en- 

400 


The  Desert 

dured  it.  He  was  suddenly  broken  away  from 
everything  cherished  and  desirable  in  life.  The 
bare  and  heart-rending  earth  about  him  was  as  the 
expression  of  his  ruined  hopes.  And  after  these 
submergences  in  despair  a  tide  of  questions  car 
ried  him  to  livelier  torment :  Why  had  she  done  it  ? 
What  had  changed  her?  When  had  she  ceased  to 
care? 

All  his  deadened  manhood  revived.  He  wanted 
her,  he  owned  her,  she  was  his.  Sick  and  unable  to 
fight  for  her  she  had  been  stolen  from  him,  and 
he  writhed  in  spasms  of  self  pity  at  the  thought  of 
the  cruelty  of  it.  How  could  he,  disabled,  broken 
by  unaccustomed  hardships,  cope  with  the  iron- 
fibered  man  whose  body  and  spirit  were  at  one  with 
these  harsh  settings?  He  was  unfitted  for  it,  for 
the  heroic  struggle,  for  the  battle  man  to  man  for 
a  woman  as  men  had  fought  in  the  world's  dawn 
into  which  they  had  retraced  their  steps.  He  could 
not  make  himself  over,  become  another  being  to 
appeal  to  a  sense  in  her  he  had  never  touched.  He 
could  only  plead  with  her,  beg  mercy  of  her,  and 
he  saw  that  these  were  not  the  means  that  won 
women  grown  half  savage  in  correspondence  with 
a  savage  environment. 

Then  came  moments  of  exhaustion  when  he  could 
not  believe  it.  Closing  his  eyes  he  called  up  the 
placid  life  that  was  to  have  been  his  and  Susan's, 
and  could  not  think  but  that  it  still  must  be.  Like 
a  child  he  clung  to  his  hope,  to  the  belief  that  some 
thing  would  intervene  and  give  her  back  to  him; 

401 


The  Emigrant  Trail 

not  he,  he  was  unable  to,  but  something  that  stood 
for  justice  and  mercy.  All  his  life  he  had  abided 
by  the  law,  walked  uprightly,  done  his  best.  Was 
he  to  be  smitten  now  through  no  fault  of  his  own? 
It  was  all  a  horrible  dream,  and  presently  there 
would  be  an  awakening  with  Susan  beside  him  as 
she  had  been  in  the  first  calm  weeks  of  their  be 
trothal.  The  sweetness  of  those  days  returned  to 
him  with  the  intolerable  pang  of  a  fair  time,  long 
past  and  never  to  come  again.  He  threw  his  head 
back  as  if  in  a  paroxysm  of  pain.  It  could  not  be 
and  yet  in  his  heart  he  knew  it  was  true.  In  the 
grip  of  his  torment  he  thought  of  the  God  that 
watching  over  Israel  slumbered  not  nor  slept. 
With  his  eyes  on  the  implacable  sky  he  tried  to 
pray,  tried  to  drag  down  from  the  empty  gulf  of 
air  the  help  that  would  bring  back  his  lost  hap 
piness. 

At  Susan's  first  waking  movement  he  started 
and  turned  his  head  toward  her.  She  saw  him, 
averted  her  face,  and  began  the  preparations  for  the 
meal.  He  lay  watching  her  and  he  knew  that  her 
avoidance  of  his  glance  was  intentional.  He  also 
saw  that  her  manner  of  preoccupied  bustle  was  af 
fected.  She  was  pale,  her  face  set  in  hard  lines. 
When  she  spoke  once  to  Daddy  John  her  voice  was 
unlike  itself,  hoarse  and  throaty,  its  mellow  music 
gone. 

They  gathered  and  took  their  places  in  silence, 
save  for  the  old  man,  who  tried  to  talk,  but  meet 
ing  no  response  gave  it  up.  Between  the  three 

402 


The  Desert 

others  not  a  word  was  exchanged.  A  stifling  op 
pression  lay  on  them,  and  they  did  not  dare  to  look 
at  one  another.  The  girl  found  it  impossible  to 
swallow  and  taking  a  piece  of  biscuit  from  her 
mouth  threw  it  into  the  sand. 

The  air  was  sultry,  light  whisps  of  mist  lying 
low  over  the  plain.  The  weight  of  these  vaporous 
films  seemed  to  rest  on  them  heavy  as  the  weight 
of  water,  and  before  the  meal  was  finished,  Susan> 
overborne  by  a  growing  dread  and  premonition  of 
tragedy,  rose  and  left  her  place,  disappearing  round 
a  buttress  of  the  rock.  Courant  stopped  eating  and 
looked  after  her,  his  head  slowly  moving  as  his  eye 
followed  her.  To  anyone  watching  it  would  have 
been  easy  to  read  this  pursuing  glance,  the  look 
of  the  hunter  on  his  quarry.  David  saw  it  and 
rose  to  his  knees.  A  rifle  lay  within  arm's  reach, 
and  for  one  furious  moment  he  felt  an  impulse  to 
snatch  it  and  kill  the  man.  But  a  rush  of  inhibiting 
instinct  checked  him.  Had  death  or  violence  men 
aced  her  he  could  have  done  it,  but  without  the 
incentive  of  the  immediate  horror  he  could  never 
rise  so  far  beyond  himself. 

Susan  climbed  the  rock's  side  to  a  plateau  on  its 
western  face.  The  sun  beat  on  her  like  a  furnace 
mouth.  Here  and  there  black  filigrees  of  shade 
shrank  to  the  bases  of  splintered  ledges.  Below  the 
plain  lay  outflung  in  the  stupor  of  midday.  On 
its  verge  the  mountains  stretched,  a  bright  blue, 
shadowless  film.  A  mirage  trembled  to  the  south, 
a  glassy  vision,  crystal  clear  amid  the  chalky  streak- 

403 


The  Emigrant  Trail 

ings  and  the  rings  of  parched  and  blanching  sinks. 
Across  the  prospect  the  faint,  unfamiliar  mist  hung 
as  if,  in  the  torrid  temperature,  the  earth  was 
steaming. 

She  sat  down  on  a  shelf  of  rock  not  feeling  the 
burning  sunshine  or  the  heat  that  the  baked  ledges 
threw  back  upon  her.  The  life  within  her  was  so 
intense  that  no  impressions  from  the  outside  could 
enter,  even  her  eyes  took  in  no  image  of  the  pros 
pect  they  dwelt  on.  Courant's  kiss  had  brought 
her  to  a  place  toward  which,  she  now  realized,  she 
had  been  moving  for  a  long  time,  advancing  upon 
it,  unknowing,  but  impelled  like  a  somnambulist 
willed  toward  a  given  goal.  What  was  to  happen 
she  did  not  know.  She  felt  a  dread  so  heavy  that 
it  crushed  all  else  from  her  mind.  They  had 
reached  a  crisis  where  everything  had  stopped,  a 
dark  and  baleful  focus  to  which  all  that  had  gone 
before  had  been  slowly  converging.  The  whole 
journey  had  been  leading  to  this  climax  of  sus 
pended  breath  and  fearful,  inner  waiting. 

She  heard  the  scraping  of  ascending  feet,  and 
when  she  saw  David  stared  at  him,  her  eyes  un 
blinking  in  stony  expectancy.  He  came  and  stood 
before  her,  and  she  knew  that  at  last  he  had  guessed, 
and  felt  no  fear,  no  resistance  against  the  explana 
tion  that  must  come.  He  suddenly  had  lost  all  sig 
nificance,  was  hardly  a  human  organism,  or  if  a 
human  organism,  one  that  had  no  relation  to  her. 
Neither  spoke  for  some  minutes.  He  was  afraid, 
and  she  waited,  knowing  what  he  was  going  to  say, 

404 


The  Desert 

wishing  it  was  said,  and  the  hampering  persistence 
of  his  claim  was  ended. 

At  length  he  said  tremulously : 

"  Susan,  I  saw  you  last  night.  What  did  you 
do  it  for?  What  am  I  to  think?  " 

That  he  had  had  proof  of  her  disloyalty  relieved 
her.  There  would  be  less  to  say  in  this  settling  of 
accounts. 

"  Well,"  she  answered,  looking  into  his  eyes. 
"You  saw!" 

He  cried  desperately,  "  I  saw  him  kiss  you.  You 
let  him.  What  did  it  mean?  " 

"Why  do  you  ask?     If  you  saw  you  know." 

"  I  don't  know.  I  want  to  know.  Tell  me,  ex 
plain  to  me."  He  paused,  and  then  cried  with  a  piti 
ful  note  of  pleading,  "  Tell  me  it  wasn't  so.  Tell  me 
I  made  a  mistake." 

He  was  willing,  anxious,  for  her  to  lie.  Against 
the  evidence  of  his  own  senses  he  would  have  made 
himself  believe  her,  drugged  his  pain  with  her 
falsehoods.  What  remnant  of  consideration  she 
had  vanished. 

"  You  made  no  mistake,"  she  answered.  "  It  was 
as  you  saw." 

"  I  don't  believe  it.  I  can't.  You  wouldn't  have 
done  it.  It's  I  you're  promised  to.  Haven't  I  your 
word?  Haven't  you  been  kind  as  an  angel  to  me 
when  the  others  would  have  let  me  die  out  here  like 
a  dog?  What  did  you  do  it  for  if  you  didn't  care?  " 

"  I  was  sorry,"  and  then  with  cold,  measured 
slowness,  "  and  I  felt  guilty." 

405 


The  Emigrant  Trail 

"  That's  it — you  felt  guilty.  It's  not  your  doing. 
You've  been  led  away.  While  I've  been  sick  that 
devil's  been  poisoning  you  against  me.  He's  tried 
to  steal  you  from  me.  But  you're  not  the  girl  to 
let  him  do  that.  You'll  come  back  to  me — the  man 
that  you  belong  to,  that's  loved  you  since  the  day 
we  started." 

To  her  at  this  naked  hour,  where  nothing  lived 
but  the  truth,  the  thought  that  he  would  take  her 
back  with  the  other  man's  kisses  on  her  lips,  made 
her  unsparing.  She  drew  back  from  him,  stiffening 
in  shocked  repugnance,  and  speaking  with  the  same 
chill  deliberation. 

"  I'll  never  come  back  to  you.  It's  all  over,  that 
love  with  you.  I  didn't  know.  I  didn't  feel.  I  was 
a  child  with  no  sense  of  what  she  was  doing.  Now 
everything's  different.  It's  he  I  must  go  with  and 
be  with  as  long  as  I  live." 

The  hideousness  of  the  discovery  had  been  made 
the  night  before.  Had  her  words  been  his  first 
intimation  they  might  have  shocked  him  into  stu 
pefied  dumbness  and  made  him  seem  the  hero  who 
meets  his  fate  with  closed  lips.  But  hours  long 
he  had  brooded  and  knew  her  severance  from  him 
had  taken  place.  With  the  mad  insistance  of  a 
thought  whirling  on  in  fevered  repetition  he  had 
told  himself  that  he  must  win  her  back,  urge,  strug 
gle,  plead,  till  he  had  got  her  where  she  was  before 
or  lose  her  forever. 

"  You  can't.  You  can't  do  it.  It's  a  temporary 
thing.  It's  the  desert  and  the  wildness  and  because 

406 


The  Desert 

he  could  ride  and  get  water  and  find  the  trail.  In 
California  it  will  be  different.  Out  there  it'll  be 
the  same  as  it  used  to  be  back  in  the  States. 
You'll  think  of  this  as  something  unreal  that  never 
happened  and  your  feeling  for  him — it'll  all  go. 
When  we  get  where  it's  civilized  you'll  be  like 
you  were  when  we  started.  You  couldn't  have 
loved  a  savage  like  that  then.  Well,  you  won't 
when  you  get  where  you  belong.  It's  horrible.  It's 
unnatural." 

She  shook  her  head,  glanced  at  him  and  glanced 
away.  The  sweat  was  pouring  off  his  face  and  his 
lips  quivered  like  a  weeping  child's. 

"  Oh,  David,"  she  said  with  a  deep  breath  like  a 
groan,  "  this  is  natural  for  me.  The  other  was 
not." 

"  You  don't  know  what  you're  saying.  And  how 
about  your  promise?  You  gave  that  of  your  own 
free  will.  Was  it  a  thing  you  give  and  take  back 
whenever  you  please?  What  would  your  father 
think  of  your  breaking  your  word — throwing  me 
off  for  a  man  no  better  than  a  half-blood  Indian? 
Is  that  your  honor  ?  "  Then  he  was  suddenly  fear 
ful  that  he  had  said  too  much  and  hurt  his  case, 
and  he  dropped  to  a  wild  pleading:  "  Oh,  Susan, 
you  can't,  you  can't.  You  haven't  got  the  heart  to 
treat  me  so." 

She  looked  down  not  answering,  but  her  silence 
gave  no  indication  of  a  softened  response.  He 
seemed  to  throw  himself  upon  its  hardness  in  hope 
less  desperation. 

407 


The  Emigrant  Trail 

"  Send  him  away.  He  needn't  go  on  with  us. 
Tell  him  to  go  back  to  the  Fort." 

"  Where  would  we  be  now  without  him  ?  "  she 
said  and  smiled  grimly  at  the  thought  of  their  re 
cent  perils  with  the  leader  absent. 

"  We're  on  the  main  trail.  We  don't  need  him 
now.  I  heard  him  say  yesterday  to  Daddy  John 
we'd  be  in  Humboldt  in  three  or  four  days.  We 
can  go  on  without  him,  there's  no  more  danger." 

She  smiled  again,  a  slight  flicker  of  one  corner 
of  her  mouth.  The  dangers  were  over  and  Courant 
could  be  safely  dispensed  with. 

"  He'll  go  on  with  us,"  she  said. 

"  It's  not  necessary.  We  don't  want  him.  I'll 
guide.  I'll  help.  If  he  was  gone  I'd  be  all  right 
again.  Daddy  John  and  I  are  enough.  If  I  can 
get  you  back  as  you  were  before,  we'll  be  happy 
again,  and  I  can  get  you  back  if  he  goes." 

"  You'll  never  get  me  back,"  she  answered,  and 
rising  moved  away  from  him,  aloof  and  hostile  in 
the  deepest  of  all  aversions,  the  woman  to  the  un 
loved  and  urgent  suitor.  He  followed  her  and 
caught  at  her  dress. 

"  Don't  go.  Don't  leave  me  this  way.  I  can't 
believe  it.  I  can't  stand  it.  If  I  hadn't  grown  into 
thinking  you  were  going  to  be  my  wife  maybe  I 
could.  But  it's  just  unbearable  when  I'd  got  used 
to  looking  upon  you  as  mine,  almost  as  good  as 
married  to  me.  You  can't  do  it.  You  can't  make 
me  suffer  this  way." 

His  complete  abandonment  filled  her  with  pain, 
408 


The  Desert 

the  first  relenting  she  had  had.  She  could  not  look 
at  him  and  longed  to  escape.  She  tried  to  draw 
her  dress  from  his  hands,  saying: 

"  Oh,  David,  don't  say  any  more.  There's  no 
good.  It's  over.  It's  ended.  I  can't  help  it.  It's 
something  stronger  than  I  am." 

He  saw  the  repugnance  in  her  face  and  loosened 
his  hold,  dropping  back  from  her. 

"  It's  the  end  of  my  life,"  he  said  in  a  muffled 
voice. 

"  I  feel  as  if  it  was  the  end  of  the  world,"  she 
answered,  and  going  to  the  pathway  disappeared 
over  its  edge. 

She  walked  back  skirting  the  rock's  bulk  till  she 
found  a  break  in  its  side,  a  small  gorge  shadowed 
by  high  walls.  The  cleft  penetrated  deep,  its  mouth 
open  to  the  sky,  its  apex  a  chamber  over  which  the 
cloven  walls  slanted  like  hands  with  finger  tips 
touching  in  prayer.  It  was  dark  in  this  interior 
space,  the  floor  mottled  with  gleaming  sun-spots. 
Across  the  wider  opening,  unroofed  to  the  pale  blue 
of  the  zenith,  the  first  slow  shade  was  stretching, 
a  creeping  gray  coolness,  encroaching  on  the  burn 
ing  ground.  Here  she  threw  herself  down,  look 
ing  out  through  the  entrance  at  the  desert  shim 
mering  through  the  heat  haze.  The  mist  wreaths 
were  dissolving,  every  line  and  color  glassily  clear. 
Her  eyes  rested  vacantly  on  it,  her  body  inert,  her 
heart  as  heavy  as  a  stone. 

David  made  no  movement  to  follow  her.  He 
had  clung  to  his  hope  with  the  desperation  of  a 

409 


The  Emigrant  Trail 

weak  nature,  but  it  was  ended  now.  No  interfer 
ence,  no  miracle,  could  restore  her  to  him.  He  saw 
—he  had  to  see — that  she  was  lost  to  him  as  com 
pletely  as  if  death  had  claimed  her.  More  com 
pletely,  for  death  would  have  made  her  a  stranger. 
Now  it  was  the  Susan  he  had  loved  who  had  looked 
at  him  with  eyes  not  even  indifferent  but  charged 
with  a  hard  hostility.  She  was  the  same  and  yet 
how  different!  Hopeless! — Hopeless!  He  won 
dered  if  the  word  had  ever  before  voiced  so  abject 
a  despair. 

He  turned  to  the  back  of  the  plateau  and  saw  the 
faint  semblance  of  a  path  leading  upward  to  higher 
levels,  a  trail  worn  by  the  feet  of  other  emigrants 
who  had  climbed  to  scan  with  longing  eyes  the  weary 
way  to  the  land  of  their  desire.  As  he  walked  up  it 
and  the  prospect  widened  on  his  sight,  its  message 
came,  clearer  with  every  mounting  step.  Thus  for 
ever  would  he  look  out  on  a  blasted  world  uncheered 
by  sound  or  color.  The  stillness  that  lapped  him 
round  was  as  the  stillness  of  his  own  dead  heart. 
The  mirage  quivered  brilliant  in  the  distance,  and 
he  paused,  a  solitary  shape  against  the  exhausted 
sky,  to  think  that  his  dream  of  love  had  had  no 
more  reality.  Beautiful  and  alluring  it  had  floated 
in  his  mind,  an  illusion  without  truth  or  substance. 

He  reached  the  higher  elevation,  barren  and  iron 
hard,  the  stone  hot  to  his  feet.  On  three  sides  the 
desert  swept  out  to  the  horizon,  held  in  its  awful 
silence.  Across  it,  a  white  seam,  the  Emigrant 
Trail  wound,  splindling  away  into  the  west,  a  line 

410 


The  Desert 

of  tortuous  curves,  a  loop,  a  straight  streak,  and 
then  a  tiny  thread  always  pressing  on  to  that  won 
derful  land  which  he  had  once  seen  as  a  glowing 
rim  on  the  world's  remotest  verge.  It  typified  the 
dauntless  effort  of  man,  never  flagging,  never  broken, 
persisting  to  its  goal.  He  had  not  been  able  to  thus 
persist,  the  spirit  had  not  reached  far  enough  to 
know  its  aim  and  grasp  it.  He  knew  his  weakness, 
his  incapacity  to  cope  with  the  larger  odds  of  life, 
a  watcher  not  an  actor  in  the  battle,  and  under 
standing  that  his  failure  had  come  from  his  own 
inadequacy  he  wished  that  he  might  die. 

On  one  side  the  eminence  broke  away  in  a  sheer 
fall  to  the  earth  below.  At  its  base  a  scattering  of 
sundered  bowlders  and  fragments  lay,  veiled  by  a 
growth  of  small,  bushy  shrubs  to  which  a  spring 
gave  nourishment.  Behind  this  the  long  spine  of 
the  rock  tapered  back  to  the  parent  ridge  that  ran, 
a  bristling  rampart,  east  and  west.  He  sat  down 
on  the  edge  of  the  precipice  watching  the  trail. 
He  had  no  idea  how  long  he  remained  thus.  A 
shadow  falling  across  him  brought  him  back  to  life. 
He  turned  and  saw  Courant  standing  a  few  feet 
from  him. 

Without  speech  or  movement  they  eyed  one  an 
other.  In  his  heart  each  hated  the  other,  but  in 
David  the  hate  had  come  suddenly,  the  hysteric 
growth  of  a  night's  anguish.  The  mountain  man's 
was  tempered  by  a  process  of  slow-firing  to  a  steely 
inflexibility.  He  hated  David  that  he  had  ever  been 
his  rival,  that  he  had  ever  thought  to  lay  claim  to 

411 


The  Emigrant  Trail 

the  woman  who  was  his,  that  he  had  ever  aspired 
to  her,  touched  her,  desired  her.  He  hated  him 
when  he  saw  that,  all  unconsciously,  he  had  still  a 
power  to  hold  her  from  the  way  her  passion  led. 
And  back  of  all  was  the  ancient  hatred,  the  heri 
tage  from  ages  lost  in  the  beginnings  of  the  race, 
man's  of  man  in  the  struggle  for  a  woman. 

David  rose  from  his  crouching  posture  to  his 
knees.  The  other,  all  his  savage  instincts  primed 
for  onslaught,  saw  menace  in  the  movement,  and 
stood  braced  and  ready.  Like  Susan  he  understood 
that  David  had  guessed  the  secret.  He  could  judge 
him  only  by  his  own  measure,  and  he  knew  the 
settling  of  the  score  had  come.  There  was  no  right 
or  justice  in  his  claim,  only  the  right  of  the 
stronger  to  win  what  he  wanted,  but  that  to  him 
was  the  supreme  right. 

David's  sick  fury  shot  up  into  living  flame.  He 
judged  Susan  innocent,  a  tool  in  ruthless  hands. 
He  saw  the  destroyer  of  their  lives,  a  devil  who  had 
worked  subtly  for  his  despoilment.  The  air  grew 
dark  and  in  the  center  of  the  darkness,  his  hate  con 
centrated  on  the  watching  face,  and  an  impulse,  the 
strongest  of  his  life,  nerved  him  with  the  force  to 
kill.  For  once  he  broke  beyond  himself,  rose  outside 
the  restrictions  that  had  held  him  cowering  within 
his  sensitive  shell.  His  rage  had  the  vehemence  of 
a  distracted  woman's,  and  he  threw  himself  upon 
his  enemy,  inadequate  now  as  always,  but  at  last 
unaware  and  unconscious. 

They  clutched  and  rocked  together.  From  the 
412 


The  Desert 

moment  of  the  grapple  it  was  unequal — a  sick  and 
wounded  creature  struggling  in  arms  that  were  as 
iron  bands  about  his  puny  frame.  But  as  a  furious 
child  fights  for  a  moment  successfully  with  its  en 
raged  elder,  he  tore  and  beat  at  his  opponent,  strik 
ing  blindly  at  the  face  he  loathed,  writhing  in  the 
grip  that  bent  his  body  and  sent  the  air  in  sobbing 
gasps  from  his  lungs.  Their  trampling  was  muf 
fled  on  the  stone,  their  shadows  leaped  in  contorted 
waverings  out  from  their  feet  and  back  again. 
Broken  and  twisted  in  Courant's  arms,  David  felt 
no  pain  only  the  blind  hate,  saw  the  livid  plain 
heaving  about  him,  the  white  ball  of  the  sun,  and 
twisting  through  the  reeling  distance  the  pale 
thread  of  the  Emigrant  Trail,  glancing  across  his 
ensanguined  vision  like  a  shuttle  weaving  through 
a  blood-red  loom. 

They  staggered  to  the  edge  of  the  plateau  and 
there  hung.  It  was  only  for  a  moment,  a  last  mo 
ment  of  strained  and  swaying  balance.  Courant 
felt  the  body  against  his  weaken,  wrenched  himself 
free,  and  with  a  driving  blow  sent  it  outward  over 
the  precipice.  It  fell  with  the  arms  flung  wide, 
the  head  dropped  backward,  and  from  the  open 
mouth  a  cry  broke,  a  shrill  and  dreadful  sound  that 
struck  sharp  on  the  plain's  abstracted  silence,  spread 
and  quivered  across  its  surface  like  widening  rings 
on  the  waters  of  a  pool.  The  mountain  man  threw 
himself  on  the  edge  and  looked  down.  The  figure 
lay  limp  among  the  bushes  thirty  feet  below.  He 
watched  it,  his  body  still  as  a  panther's  crouched 


The  Emigrant  Trail 

for  a  spring.  He  saw  one  of  the  hands  twitch, 
a  loosened  sliver  of  slate  slide  from  the  wall,  and 
cannoning  on  projections,  leap  down  and  bury  it 
self  in  the  outflung  hair.  The  face  looking  up  at 
him  with  half-shut  eyes  that  did  not  wink  as  the 
rock  dust  sifted  into  them,  was  terrible,  but  he  felt 
no  sensation  save  a  grim  curiosity. 

He  stole  down  a  narrow  gulley  and  crept  with 
stealthy  feet  and  steadying  hands  toward  the  still 
shape.  The  shadows  were  cool  down  there,  and 
as  he  touched  the  face  its  warmth  shocked  him. 
It  should  have  been  cold  to  have  matched  its  look 
and  the  hush  of  the  place.  He  thrust  his  hand  in 
side  the  shirt  and  felt  at  the  heart.  No  throb  rose 
under  his  palm,  and  he  sent  it  sliding  over  the  up 
per  part  of  the  body,  limp  now,  but  which  he  knew 
would  soon  be  stiffening.  The  man  was  dead. 

Courant  straightened  himself  and  sent  a  rapid 
glance  about  him.  The  bushes  among  which  the 
body  lay  were  close  matted  in  a  thick  screen. 
Through  their  roots  the  small  trickle  of  the  spring 
percolated,  stealing  its  way  to  the  parched  sands 
outside.  It  made  a  continuous  murmuring,  as  if 
nature  was  lifting  a  voice  of  low,  insistent  protest 
against  the  desecration  of  her  peace. 

The  man  standing  with  stilled  breath  and  rigid 
muscles  listened  for  other  sounds.  Reassured  that 
there  were  none,  his  look  swept  right  and  left  for 
a  spot  wherein  to  hide  the  thing  that  lay  at  his  feet. 
At  its  base  the  rock  wall-  slanted  outward  leaving  a 
hollow  beneath  its  eave  where  the  thin  veneer  of 

414 


The  Desert 

water  gleamed  from  the  shadows.  He  took  the 
dead  man  under  the  arms  and  dragged  him  to  it, 
careful  of  branches  that  might  snap  under  his  foot, 
pausing  to  let  the  echoes  of  rolling  stones  die  away 
—a  figure  of  fierce  vitality  with  the  long,  limp  body 
hanging  from  his  hands.  At  the  rock  he  crouched 
and  thrust  his  burden  under  the  wall's  protecting 
cope,  the  trickle  of  the  water  dying  into  a  sudden, 
scared  silence.  Stepping  back  he  brushed  the  bushes 
into  shape,  hiding  their  breakage,  and  bent  to 
gather  the  scattered  leaves  and  crush  them  into 
crevices.  When  it  was  done  the  place  showed  no 
sign  of  the  intruder,  only  the  whispering  of  the 
streamlet  told  that  its  course  was  changed  and  it 
was  feeling  for'a  new  channel. 

Then  he  crept  softly  out  to  the  plain's  edge  where 
the  sunlight  lay  long  and  bright.  It  touched  his 
face  and  showed  it  white,  with  lips  close  set  and 
eyes  gleaming  like  crystals.  He  skirted  the  rock, 
making  a  soft,  quick  way  to  where  the  camp  lay. 
Here  the  animals  stood,  heads  drooped  as  they 
cropped  the  herbage  round  the  spring.  Daddy 
John  sat  in  the  shade  of  the  wagon,  tranquilly 
cleaning  a  gun.  The  mountain  man's  passage  was 
so  soundless  that  he  did  not  hear  it.  The  animals 
raised  slow  eyes  to  the  moving  figure,  then  dropped 
them  indifferently.  He  passed  them,  his  step  grow 
ing  lighter,  changing  as  he  withdrew  from  the  old 
man's  line  of  vision,  to  a  long,  rapid  glide.  His 
blood-shot  eyes  nursed  the  extending  buttresses, 
and  as  he  came  round  them,  with  craned  neck  and 

415 


The  Emigrant  Trail 

body  reaching  forward,  they  sent  a  glance  into  each 
recess  that  leaped  round  it  like  a  flame. 

Susan  had  remained  in  the  same  place.  She 
made  no  note  of  the  passage  of  time,  but  the  sky 
between  the  walls  was  growing  deeper  in  color,  the 
shadows  lengthening  along  the  ground.  She  was 
lying  on  her  side  looking  out  through  the  rift's 
opening  when  Courant  stood  there.  He  made  an 
instant's  pause,  a  moment  when  his  breath  caught 
deep,  and,  seeing  him,  she  started  to  her  knees  with 
a  blanching  face.  As  he  came  upon  her  she  held 
out  her  hands,  crying  in  uprising  notes  of  terror, 
"No!  No!  No!"  But  he  gathered  her  in  his  arms, 
stilled  her  cries  with  his  kisses,  and  bending  low 
carried  her  back  into  the  darkened  cavern  over 
which  the  rocks  closed  like  hands  uplifted  in  prayer. 


416 


CHAPTER   VI 

TILL  the  afternoon  of  the  next  day  they  held  the 
train  for  David.  When  evening  fell  and  he  did  not 
come  Daddy  John  climbed  the  plateau  and  kindled 
a  beacon  fire  that  threw  its  flames  against  the  stars. 
Then  he  took  his  rifle  and  skirted  the  rock's  loom 
ing  bulk,  shattering  the  stillness  with  reports  that  let 
loose  a  shivering  flight  of  echoes.  All  night  they 
sat  by  the  fire  listening  and  waiting.  As  the  hours 
passed  their  alarm  grew  and  their  speculations 
became  gloomier  and  more  sinister.  Courant  was 
the  only  one  who  had  a  plausible  theory.  The  mov 
ing  sparks  on  the  mountains  showed  that  the  Indians 
were  still  following  them  and  it  was  his  opinion 
that  David  had  strayed  afar  and  been  caught  by  a 
foraging  party.  It  was  not  a  matter  for  desperate 
alarm  as  the  Diggers  were  harmless  and  David 
would  no  doubt  escape  from  them  and  join  a  later 
train.  This  view  offered  the  only  possible  explana 
tion.  It  was  Courant's  opinion  and  so  it  carried 
with  the  other  two. 

Early  in  the  evening  the  girl  had  shown  no  in 
terest.  Sitting  back  from  the  firelight,  a  shawl  over 
her  head,  she  seemed  untouched  by  the  anxiety  that 
prompted  the  old  man's  restless  rovings.  As  the 
night  deepened  Daddy  John  had  come  back  to 

417 


The  Emigrant  Trail 

Courant  who  was  near  her.  He  spoke  his  fears' 
low,  for  he  did  not  want  to  worry  her.  Glancing 
to  see  if  she  had  heard  him,  he  was  struck  by 
the  brooding  expression  of  her  face,  white  between 
the  shawl  folds.  He  nodded  cheerily  at  her  but  her 
eyes  showed  no  responsive  gleam,  dwelling  on  him 
wide  and  unseeing.  As  he  moved  away  he  heard 
her  burst  into  sudden  tears,  such  tears  as  she  had 
shed  at  the  Fort,  and  turning  back  with  arms  ready 
for  her  comforting,  saw  her  throw  herself  against 
Courant's  knees,  her  face  buried  in  the  folds  of  her 
shawl.  He  stood  arrested,  amazed  not  so  much  by 
the  outburst  as  by  the  fact  that  it  was  to  Courant 
she  had  turned  and  not  to  him.  But  when  he  spoke 
to  her  she  drew  the  shawl  tighter  over  her  head 
and  pressed  her  face  against  the  mountain  man's 
knees.  Daddy  John  had  no  explanation  of  her  con 
duct  but  that  she  had  been  secretly  fearful  about 
David  and  had  turned  for  consolation  to  the  human 
being  nearest  her. 

The  next  day  her  anxiety  was  so  sharp  that  she 
could  not  eat  and  the  men  grew  accustomed  to  the 
sight  of  her  mounted  on  the  rock's  summit,  or  walk 
ing  slowly  along  the  trail  searching  with  untiring 
eyes.  When  alone  with  her  lover  he  kissed  and 
caressed  her  fears  into  abeyance.  As  he  soothed  her, 
clasped  close  against  him,  her  terrors  gradually  sub 
sided,  sinking  to  a  quiescence  that  came,  not  alone 
from  his  calm  and  practical  reassurances,  but  from 
the  power  of  his  presence  to  drug  her  reason  and 
banish  all  thoughts  save  those  of  him.  He  wanted 

418 


The  Desert 

her  mind  free  of  the  dead  man,  wanted  him  elimi 
nated  from  her  imagination.  The  spiritual  image 
of  David  must  fade  from  her  thoughts  as  his  cor 
poreal  part  would  soon'  fade  in  the  desiccating 
desert  airs.  Alone  by  the  spring,  held  against 
Courant's  side  by  an  arm  that  trembled  with  a 
passion  she  still  only  half  understood,  she  told  him 
of  her  last  interview  with  David.  In  an  agony  of 
self-accusation  she  whispered : 

"Oh,  Low,  could  he  have  killed  himself?" 

"  Where  ?  "  said  the  man.  "  Haven't  we  searched 
every  hole  and  corner  of  the  place?  He  couldn't 
have  hidden  his  own  body." 

The  only  evidence  that  some  mishap  had  befallen 
David  was  Daddy  John's,  who,  on  the  afternoon  of 
the  day  of  the  disappearance  had  heard  a  cry,  a 
single  sound,  long  and  wild.  It  had  seemed  to 
come  from  the  crest  of  the  rock,  and  the  old  man 
had  listened  and  hearing  no  more  had  thought  it 
the  yell  of  some  animal  far  on  the  mountains.  This 
gave  color  to  Courant's  theory  that  the  lost  man 
had  been  seized  by  the  Diggers.  Borne  away  along 
the  summit  of  the  ridge  he  would  have  shouted  to 
them  and  in  that  dry  air  the  sound  would  have 
carried  far.  He  could  have  been  overpowered  with 
out  difficulty,  weakened  by  illness  and  carrying  no 
arms. 

They  spent  the  morning  in  a  fruitless  search  and 
in  the  afternoon  Courant  insisted  on  the  train  mov 
ing  on.  They  cached  provisions  by  the  spring  and 
scratched  an  arrow  on  the  rock  pointing  their  way, 

419 


The  Emigrant  Trail 

and  underneath  it  the  first  letters  of  their  names. 
It  was  useless,  the  leader  said,  to  leave  anything  in 
the  form  of  a  letter.  As  soon  as  their  dust  was 
moving  on  the  trail  the  Diggers  would  sweep  down 
on  the  camp  and  carry  away  every  scrap  of  rag  and 
bone  that  was  there.  This  was  why  he  overrode 
Susan's  plea  to  leave  David's  horse.  Why  present 
to  the  Indians  a  horse  when  they  had  only  sufficient 
for  themselves  ?  She  wrung  her  hands  at  the  grew- 
some  picture  of  David  escaping  and  stealing  back  to 
find  a  deserted  camp.  But  Courant  was  inexorable 
and  the  catching-up  went  forward  with  grim  speed. 

She  and  the  old  man  were  dumb  with  depression 
as  the  train  rolled  out.  To  them  the  desertion 
seemed  an  act  of  appalling  heartlessness.  But  the 
mountain  man  had  overcome  Daddy  John's  scruples 
by  a  picture  of  their  own  fate  if  they  delayed  and 
were  caught  in  the  early  snows  of  the  Sierras.  The 
girl  could  do  nothing  but  trust  in  the  word  that  was 
already  law  to  her.  He  rode  beside  her  murmuring 
reassurances  and  watching  her  pale  profile.  Her 
head  hung  low  on  her  breast,  her  hat  casting  a 
slant  of  shadow  to  her  chin.  Her  eyes  looked 
gloomily  forward,  sometimes  as  his  words  touched 
a  latent  chord  of  hope,  turning  quickly  upon  him 
and  enveloping  him  in  a  look  of  pathetic  trust. 

At  the  evening  halt  she  ate  nothing,  sitting  in  a 
muse  against  the  wagon  wheel.  Presently  she  put 
her  plate  down  and,  mounting  on  the  axle,  scanned 
the  way  they  had  come.  She  could  see  the  rock, 
rising  like  the  clumsy  form  of  a  dismantled  galleon 

420 


The  Desert 

from  the  waters  of  a  darkling  sea.  For  a  space  she 
stood,  her  hand  arched  above  her  eyes,  then 
snatched  the  kerchief  from  her  neck  and,  straining 
an  arm  aloft,  waved  it.  The  white  and  scarlet  rag 
flapped  with  a  languid  motion,  an  infinitesimal 
flutter  between  the  blaze  of  the  sky  and  the  purpling 
levels  of  the  earth.  Her  arm  dropped,  her  signal 
fallen  futile  on  the  plain's  ironic  indifference. 

During  the  next  day's  march  she  constantly 
looked  back,  and  several  times  halted,  her  hand  de 
manding  silence  as  if  she  were  listening  for  pursu 
ing  footsteps.  Courant  hid  a  growing  irritation, 
which  once  escaped  him  in  a  query  as  to  whether 
she  thought  David,  if  he  got  away  from  the  Indians, 
could  possibly  catch  them  up.  She  answered  that  if 
he  had  escaped  with  a  horse  he  might,  and  fell 
again  to  her  listening  and  watching.  At  the  night 
camp  she  ordered  Daddy  John  to  build  the  beacon 
fire  higher  than  ever,  and  taking  a  rifle  moved 
along  the  outskirts  of  the  light  firing  into  the  dark 
ness.  Finally,  standing  with  the  gun  caught  in  the 
crook  of  her  arm,  she  sent  up  a  shrill  call  of 
"  David."  The  cry  fell  into  the  silence,  cleaving  it 
with  a  note  of  wild  and  haunting  appeal.  Courant 
went  after  her  and  brought  her  back.  When  they 
returned  to  the  fire  the  old  man,  who  was  busy  with 
the  cooking,  looked  up  to  speak  but  instead  gazed 
in  silence,  caught  by  something  unusual  in  their 
aspect,  revivifying,  illuminating,  like  the  radiance  of 
an  inner  glow.  It  glorified  the  squalor  of  their 
clothing,  the  drawn  fatigue  of  their  faces.  It  gave 

421 


The  Emigrant  Trail 

them  the  fleeting  glamour  of  spiritual  beauty  that 
comes  to  those  in  whom  being  has  reached  its  high 
est  expression,  the  perfect  moment  of  completion 
caught  amid  life's  incompleteness. 

In  the  following  days  she  moved  as  if  the  dust 
cloud  that  inclosed  her  was  an  impenetrable  medium 
that  interposed  itself  between  her  and  the  weird 
setting  of  the  way.  She  was  drugged  with  the  wine 
of  a  new  life.  She  did  not  think  of  sin,  of  herself 
in  relation  to  her  past,  of  the  breaking  with  every 
tie  that  held  her  to  her  old  self.  All  her  background 
was  gone.  Her  conscience  that,  in  her  dealings 
with  David,  had  been  so  persistently  lively,  now, 
when  it  came  to  herself,  was  dead.  Question  of 
right  or  wrong,  secret  communings,  self  judgment, 
had  no  place  in  the  exaltation  of  her  mood.  To 
look  at  her  conduct  and  reason  of  it,  to  do  anything 
but  feel,  was  as  impossible  for  her  as  it  would  have 
been  to  disengage  her  senses  from  their  tranced 
concentration  and  restore  them  to  the  composed 
serenity  of  the  past. 

It  was  not  the  sudden  crumbling  of  a  character, 
the  collapse  of  a  structure  reared  on  a  foundation 
of  careful  training.  It  was  a  logical  growth, 
forced  by  the  developing  process  of  an  environment 
with  which  that  character  was  in  harmony.  Before 
she  reached  the  level  where  she  could  surrender 
herself,  forgetful  of  the  rites  imposed  by  law,  un- 
shocked  by  her  lover's  brutality,  she  had  been  losing 
every  ingrafted  and  inherited  modification  that  had 
united  her  with  the  world  in  which  she  had  been  an 

422 


The  Desert 

exotic.  The  trials  of  the  trail  that  would  have 
dried  the  soul  and  broken  the  mettle  of  a  girl 
whose  womanhood  was  less  rich,  drew  from  hers  the 
full  measure  of  its  strength.  Every  day  had  made 
her  less  a  being  of  calculated,  artificial  reserves, 
of  inculcated  modesties,  and  more  a  human  animal, 
governed  by  instincts  that  belonged  to  her  age  and 
sex.  She  was  normal  and  chaste  and  her  chastity 
had  made  her  shrink  from  the  man  whose  touch 
left  her  cold,  and  yield  to  the  one  to  whom  her  first 
antagonism  had  been  first  response.  When  she  had 
given  Courant  her  kiss  she  had  given  herself.  There 
was  no  need  for  intermediary  courtship.  After 
that  vacillations  of  doubt  and  conscience  ended. 
The  law  of  her  being  was  all  that  remained. 

She  moved  on  with  the  men,  dust-grimed,  her 
rags  held  together  with  pins  and  lacings  of  deer 
hide.  She  performed  her  share  of  the  work  with 
automatic  thoroughness,  eating  when  the  hour 
came,  sleeping  on  the  ground  under  the  stars,  stag 
gering  up  in  the  deep-blue  dawn  and  buckling  her 
horse's  harness  with  fingers  that  fatigue  made 
clumsy.  She  was  more  silent  than  ever  before, 
often  when  the  old  man  addressed  her  making  no 
reply.  He  set  down  her  abstraction  to  grief  over 
David.  When  he  tried  to  cheer  her,  her  absorbed 
preoccupation  gave  place  to  the  old  restlessness, 
and  once  again  she  watched  and  listened.  These 
were  her  only  moods — periods  of  musing  when  she 
rode  in  front  of  the  wagon  with  vacant  eyes  fixed 
on  the  winding  seam  of  the  trail,  and  periods  of 

423 


The  Emigrant  Trail 

nervous  agitation  when  she  turned  in  her  saddle  to 
sweep  the  road  behind  her  and  ordered  him  to  build 
the  night  fire  high  and  bright. 

The  old  servant  was  puzzled.  Something  foreign 
in  her,  an  inner  vividness  of  life,  a  deeper  current 
of  vitality,  told  him  that  this  was  not  a  woman 
preyed  upon  by  a  gnawing  grief.  He  noted,  with 
out  understanding,  a  change  in  her  bearing  to 
Courant  and  his  to  her.  Without  words  to  give  it 
expression  he  saw  in  her  attitude  to  the  leader  a 
pliant,  docile  softness,  a  surreptitious  leap  of  light 
in  the  glance  that  fell  upon  him  in  quick  welcome 
before  her  lids  shut  it  in.  With  Courant  the  change 
showed  in  a  possessive  tenderness,  a  brooding  con 
cern.  When,  at  the  morning  start,  he  waited  as  she 
rode  toward  him,  his  face  was  irradiated  with  a 
look  that  made  the  old  man  remember  the  dead 
loves  of  his  youth.  It  was  going  to  be  all  right 
Daddy  John  thought.  David  gone,  whether  for 
ever  or  for  an  unknown  period,  the  mountain  man 
might  yet  win  her.  And  then  again  the  old  man 
fell  a  wondering  at  something  in  them  that  did  not 
suggest  the  unassured  beginnings  of  courtship,  a 
settled  security  of  relation  as  of  complete  unity  in 
a  mutual  enterprise. 

One  afternoon  a  faint  spot  of  green  rose  and 
lingered  on  the  horizon.  They  thought  it  a  mirage 
and  watched  it  with  eyes  grown  weary  of  the 
desert's  delusions.  But  as  the  road  bore  toward  it, 
it  steadied  to  their  anxious  gaze,  expanded  into  a 
patch  that  lay  a  living  touch  on  the  earth's  dead  face. 

424 


The  Desert 

By  the  time  that  dusk  gathered  they  saw  that  it  was 
trees  and  knew  that  Humboldt  was  in  sight.  At 
nightfall  they  reached  it,  the  first  outpost  sent  into 
the  wilderness  by  the  new  country.  The  red  light 
of  fires  came  through  the  dusk  like  a  welcoming 
hail  from  that  unknown  land  which  was  to  be  theirs. 
After  supper  Daddy  John  and  Courant  left  the  girl 
and  went  to  the  mud  house  round  which  the  camps 
clustered.  The  darkness  was  diluted  by  the  red 
glow  of  fires  and  astir  with  dusky  figures.  There 
were  trains  for  California  and  Oregon  and  men 
from  the  waste  lands  to  the  eastward  and  the  south, 
flotsam  and  jetsam  thrown  up  on  the  desert's  shore. 
Inside,  where  the  air  was  thick  with  smoke  and  the 
reek  of  raw  liquors,  they  heard  again  the  great 
news  from  California.  The  old  man,  determined  to 
get  all  the  information  he  could,  moved  from  group 
to  group,  an  observant  listener  in  the  hubbub.  Pres 
ently  his  ear  was  caught  by  a  man  who  declared  he 
had  been  on  the  gold  river  and  was  holding  a  circle 
in  thrall  by  his  tales.  Daddy  John  turned  to  beckon 
to  Courant  and,  not  seeing  him,  elbowed  his  way 
through  the  throng  spying  to  right  and  left.  But 
the  mountain  man  had  gone.  Daddy  John  went  back 
to  the  gold  seeker  and  drew  him  dry  of  information, 
then  foregathered  with  a  thin  individual  who  had  a 
humorous  eye  and  was  looking  on  from  a  corner. 
This  stranger  introduced  himself  as  a  clergyman, 
returning  from  the  East  to  Oregon  by  way  of  Cali 
fornia.  They  talked  together,  Daddy  John  finding 
his  new  acquaintance  a  tolerant  cheery  person 

425 


The  Emigrant  Trail 

versed  in  the  lore  of  the  trail.  The  man  gave  him 
many  useful  suggestions  for  the  last  lap  of  the 
journey  and  he  decided  to  go  after  Courant,  to 
whom  the  route  over  the  Sierra  was  unknown 
ground. 

The  camps  had  sunk  to  silence,  the  women  and 
children  asleep.  He  skirted  their  tents,  bending  his 
course  to  where  he  saw  the  hood  of  his  own  wagon 
and  the  shadowy  forms  of  Julia  and  her  mates. 
The  fire  still  burned  bright  and  on  its  farther  side 
he  could  make  out  the  figures  of  Susan  and  Courant 
seated  on  the  ground.  They  were  quiet,  the  girl 
sitting  with  her  feet  tucked  under  her,  idly  throwing 
scraps  of  sage  on  the  blaze.  He  was  about  to  hail 
Courant  when  he  saw  him  suddenly  drop  to  a  re 
clining  posture  beside  her,  draw  himself  along  the 
earth  and  curl  about  her,  his  elbow  on  the  ground, 
his  head  propped  on  a  sustaining  hand.  With  the 
other  he  reached  forward,  caught  Susan's  and 
drawing  it  toward  him  pressed  it  against  his  cheek. 
Daddy  John  watche-d  the  sacrilegious  act  with 
starting  eyes.  He  would  have  burst  in  upon  them 
had  he  not  seen  the  girl's  shy  smile,  and  her  body 
gently  droop  forward  till  her  lips  rested  on  the 
mountain  man's.  When  she  drew  back  the  old  serv 
ant  came  forward  into  the  light.  Its  reflection  hid 
his  pallor,  but  his  heart  was  thumping  like  a 
hammer  and  his  throat  was  dry,  for  suddenly  he 
understood.  At  his  step  Susan  drew  away  from 
her  companion  and  looked  at  the  advancing  shape 
with  eyes  darkly  soft  as  those  of  an  antelope. 

426 


The  Desert 

"  Where  have  you  been  ?  "  she  said.  "  You  were 
a  long  time  away." 

"  In  the  mud  house,"  said  Daddy  John. 

"Did  you  find  anyone  interesting  there?" 

"  Yes.  When  I  was  talkin'  with  him  I  didn't 
know  he  was  so  powerful  interesting  but  sence  I 
come  out  o'  there  I've  decided  he  was." 

They  both  looked  at  him  without  much  show  of 
curiosity,  merely,  he  guessed,  that  they  might  not 
look  at  each  other  and  reveal  their  secret. 

"  What  was  he  ?  "  asked  Courant. 

"  A  clergyman." 

This  time  they  both  started,  the  girl  into  sudden 
erectness,  then  held  her  head  down  as  if  in  shame. 
For  a  sickened  moment,  he  thought  she  was  afraid 
to  look  at  her  lover  for  fear  of  seeing  refusal  in  his 
face.  Courant  leaned  near  her  and  laid  his  hand 
on  hers. 

"  If  there's  a  clergyman  here  we  can  be  married," 
he  said  quietly. 

She  drew  her  hand  away  and  with  its  fellow 
covered  her  face.  Courant  looked  across  the  fire 
and  said : 

"  Go  and  get  him,  Daddy  John.  He  can  do  the 
reading  over  us  now." 


427 


PART  V 

The   Promised   Land 


CHAPTER  I 

IN  the  light  of  a  clear  September  sun  they  stood 
and  looked  down  on  it — the  Promised  Land. 

For  days  they  had  been  creeping  up  through  defiles 
in  the  mountain  wall,  crawling  along  ledges  with 
murmurous  seas  of  pine  below  and  the  snow  lying 
crisp  in  the  hollows.  On  the  western  slope  the 
great  bulwark  dropped  from  granite  heights  to 
wooded  ridges  along  the  spines  of  which  the  road 
wound.  Through  breaks  in  the  pine's  close  ranks 
they  saw  blue,  vaporous  distances,  and  on  the  far 
side  of  aerial  chasms  the  swell  of  other  mountains, 
clothed  to  their  summits,  shape  undulating  beyond 
shape. 

Then  on  this  bright  September  afternoon  a  sun- 
filled  pallor  of  empty  space  shone  between  the  tree 
trunks,  and  they  had  hurried  to  the  summit  of  a 
knoll  and  seen  it  spread  beneath  them — California! 

The  long  spurs,  broken  apart  by  ravines,  wound 
downward  to  where  a  flat  stretch  of  valley  ran  out 
to  a  luminous  horizon.  It  was  a  yellow  floor,  dotted 
with  the  dark  domes  of  trees  and  veined  with  a  line 
of  water.  The  trail,  a  red  thread,  was  plain  along 
the  naked  ridges,  and  then  lost  itself  in  the  dusk  of 
forests.  Right  and  left  summit  and  slope  swelled 
and  dropped,  sun-tipped,  shadow  filled.  Slants  of 


The  Emigrant  Trail 

light,  rifts  of  shade,  touched  the  crowded  pine  tops 
to  gold,  darkened  them  to  sweeps  of  unstirred  olive. 
The  air,  softly  clear,  was  impregnated  with  a  power 
ful  aromatic  scent,  the  strong,  rich  odor  of  the  earth 
and  its  teeming  growths.  It  lay  placid  and  indolent 
before  the  way-worn  trio,  a  new  world  waiting  for 
their  conquering  feet. 

The  girl,  with  a  deep  sigh,  dropped  her  head 
upon  her  husband's  shoulder  and  closed  her  eyes. 
She  weakened  with  the  sudden  promise  of  rest.  It 
was  in  the  air,  soft  as  a  caress,  in  the  mild,  benefi 
cent  sun,  in  the  stillness  which  had  nothing  of  the 
desert's  sinister  quiet.  Courant  put  his  arm  about 
her,  and  looking  into  her  face,  saw  it  drawn  and 
pinched,  all  beauty  gone.  Her  closed  eyelids  were 
dark  and  seamed  with  fine  folds,  the  cheek  bones 
showed  under  her  skin,  tanned  to  a  dry  brown,  its 
rich  bloom  withered.  Round  her  forehead  and  ears 
her  hair  hung  in  ragged  locks,  its  black  gloss  hidden 
under  the  trail's  red  dust.  Even  her  youth  had  left 
her,  she  seemed  double  her  age.  It  was  as  if  he 
looked  at  the  woman  she  would  be  twenty  years 
from  now. 

Something  in  the  sight  of  her,  unbeautiful,  en 
feebled,  her  high  spirit  dimmed,  stirred  in  him  a 
new,  strange  tenderness.  His  arm  tightened  about 
her,  his  look  lost  its  jealous  ardor  and  wandering 
over  her  blighted  face,  melted  to  a  passionate  con 
cern.  The  appeal  of  her  beauty  gave  place  to  a 
stronger,  more  gripping  appeal,  never  felt  by  him 
before.  She  was  no  longer  the  creature  he  owned 


The  Promised  Land 

and  ruled,  no  longer  the  girl  he  had  broken  to  an 
abject  submission,  but  the  woman  he  loved.  Up 
lifted  in  the  sudden  realization  he  felt  the  world 
widen  around  him  and  saw  himself  another  man. 
Then  through  the  wonder  of  the  revelation  came 
the  thought  of  what  he  had  done  to  win  her.  It 
astonished  him  as  a  dart  of  pain  would  have  done. 
Why  had  he  remembered  it?  Why  at  this  rich 
moment  should  the  past  send  out  this  eerie  remin 
der?  He  pushed  it  from  him,  and  bending  toward 
her  murmured  a  lover's  phrase. 

She  opened  her  eyes  and  they  met  an  expression 
in  his  that  she  had  felt  the  need  of,  hoped  and 
waited  for,  an  answer  to  what  she  had  offered  and 
he  had  not  seen  or  wanted.  It  was  completion, 
arrival  at  the  goal,  so  longed  for  and  despaired  of, 
and  she  turned  her  face  against  his  shoulder,  her 
happiness  too  sacred  even  for  his  eyes.  He  did  not 
understand  the  action,  thought  her  spirit  lan 
guished  and,  pointing  outward,  cried  in  his  mount 
ing  gladness: 

"  Look — that's  where  our  home  will  be." 

She  lifted  her  head  and  followed  the  directing 
finger.  The  old  man  stood  beside  them  also  gazing 
down. 

"  It's  a  grand  sight,"  he  said.  "  But  it's  as  yellow 
as  the  desert.  Must  be  almighty  dry." 

"  There's  plenty  of  water,"  said  Courant. 
"  Rivers  come  out  of  these  mountains  and  go  down 
there  into  the  plain.  And  they  carry  the  gold,  the 
gold  that's  going  to  make  us  rich." 

433 


The  Emigrant  Trail 

He  pressed  her  shoulder  with  his  encircling  arm 
and  she  answered  dreamily: 

"  We  are  rich  enough." 

He  thought  she  alluded  to  the  Doctor's  money 
that  was  hidden  in  the  wagon. 

"  But  we'll  be  richer.  We've  got  here  before  the 
rest  of  'em.  We're  the  first  comers  and  it's  ours. 
You'll  be  queen  here,  Susan.  I'll  make  you  one." 
His  glance  ranged  over  the  splendid  prospect,  eager 
with  the  man's  desire  to  fight  and  win  for  his  own. 
She  thought  little  of  what  he  said,  lost  in  her  per 
fect  content. 

"  When  we've  got  the  gold  we'll  take  up  land 
and  I'll  build  a  house  for  you,  a  good  house,  my 
wife  won't  live  in  a  tent.  It'll  be  of  logs,  strong 
and  water  tight,  and  as  soon  as  they  bring  things 
in — and  the  ships  will  be  coming  soon — we'll  fur 
nish  it  well.  And  that'll  be  only  the  beginning." 

"  Where  will  we  build  it?  "  she  said,  catching  his 
enthusiasm  and  straining  her  eyes  as  if  then  and 
there  to  pick  out  the  spot. 

"  By  the  river  under  a  pine." 

"  With  a  place  for  Daddy  John,"  she  cried, 
stretching  a  hand  toward  the  old  man.  "  He  must 
be  there  too." 

He  took  it  and  stood  linked  to  the  embracing 
pair  by  the  girl's  warm  grasp. 

"  I'll  stick  by  the  tent,"  he  said ;  "  no  four  walls 
for  me." 

"  And  you  two,"  she  looked  from  one  to  the 
other,  "  will  wash  for  the  gold  and  I'll  take  care  of 

434 


The  Promised  Land 

you.  I'll  keep  everything  clean  and  comfortable. 
It'll  be  a  cozy  little  home — our  log  house  under  the 
pine." 

She  laughed,  the  first  time  in  many  weeks,  and 
the  clear  sound  rang  joyously. 

"  And  when  we've  got  all  the  dust  we  want," 
Courant  went  on,  his  spirit  expanding  on  the  music 
of  her  laughter,  "  we'll  go  down  to  the  coast. 
They'll  have  a  town  there  soon  for  the  shipping. 
We'll  grow  up  with  it,  build  it  into  a  city,  and  as  it 
gets  richer  so  will  we.  It's  going  to  be  a  new  em 
pire,  out  here  by  the  Pacific,  with  the  gold  rivers 
back  of  it  and  the  ocean  in  front.  And  it's  going  to 
be  ours." 

She  looked  over  the  foreground  of  hill  and 
vale  to  the  shimmering  sweep  of  the  rich  still  land. 
Her  imagination,  wakened  by  his  words,  passed 
from  the  log  house  to  the  busy  rush  of  a  city  where 
the  sea  shone  between  the  masts  of  ships.  It  was  a 
glowing  future  they  were  to  march  on  together, 
with  no  cloud  to  mar  it  now  that  she  had  seen  the 
new  look  in  his  eyes. 

A  few  days  later  they  were  in  the  Sacramento 
Valley  camped  near  the  walls  of  Sutter's  Fort.  The 
plain,  clad  with  a  drab  grass,  stretched  to  where  the 
low-lying  Sacramento  slipped  between  oozy  banks. 
Here  were  the  beginnings  of  a  town,  shacks  and 
tents  dumped  down  in  a  helter  skelter  of  slovenly 
hurry.  Beyond,  the  American  river  crept  from  the 
mountains  and  threaded  the  parched  land.  Between 
the  valley  and  the  white  sky-line  of  the  Sierra,  the 

435 


The  Emigrant  Trail 

foot  hills  swelled,  indented  with  ravines  and 
swathed  in  the  matted  robe  of  the  chaparral. 

While  renewing  their  supplies  at  the  fort  they 
camped  under  a  live  oak.  It  was  a  mighty  growth, 
its  domed  outline  fretted  with  the  fineness  of  horny 
leaves,  its  vast  boughs  outflung  in  contorted  curves. 
The  river  sucked  about  its  roots.  Outside  its  shade 
the  plain  grew  dryer  under  unclouded  suns,  huge 
trees  casting  black  blots  of  shadow  in  which  the 
Fort's  cattle  gathered.  Sometimes  vaqueros  came 
from  the  gates  in  the  adobe  walls,  riding  light  and 
with  the  long  spiral  leap  of  the  lasso  rising  from 
an  upraised  hand.  Sometimes  groups  of  half-naked 
Indians  trailed  through  the  glare,  winding  a  way 
to  the  spot  of  color  that  was  their  camp. 

To  the  girl  it  was  all  wonderful,  the  beauty,  the 
peace,  the  cessation  of  labor.  When  the  men  were 
at  the  Fort  she  lay  beneath  the  great  tree  watching 
the  faint,  white  chain  of  the  mountains,  or  the 
tawny  valley  burning  to  orange  in  the  long  after 
noons.  For  once  she  was  idle,  come  at  last  to  the 
end  of  all  her  journeyings.  Only  the  present,  the 
tranquil,  perfect  present,  existed.  What  did  not 
touch  upon  it,  fit  in  and  have  some  purpose  in  her 
life  with  the  man  of  whom  she  was  a  part,  was 
waste  matter.  She  who  had  once  been  unable  to 
endure  the  thought  of  separation  from  her  father 
could  now  look  back  on  his  death  and  say,  "  How 
I  suffered  then,"  and  know  no  reminiscent  pang. 
She  would  have  wondered  at  herself  if,  in  the  happi 
ness  in  which  she  was  lapped,  she  could  have  drawn 

436 


The  Promised  Land 

her  mind  from  its  contemplation  to  wonder  at  any 
thing.  There  was  no  world  beyond  the  camp,  no 
interest  in  what  did  not  focus  on  Courant,  no  people 
except  those  who  added  to  his  trials  or  his  welfare. 

The  men  spent  much  of  their  time  at  the  Fort, 
conferring  with  others  en  route  to  the  river  bed  be 
low  Sutler's  mill.  When  they  came  back  to  the 
camp  there  was  lively  talk  under  the  old  tree.  The 
silence  of  the  trail  was  at  an  end.  The  pendulum 
swung  far,  and  now  they  were  garrulous,  carried 
away  by  the  fever  of  speculation.  The  evening 
came  and  found  them  with  scattered  stores  and  un- 
cleaned  camp,  their  voices  loud  against  the  low 
whisperings  of  leaves  and  water. 

Courant  returned  from  these  absences  aglow  with 
fortified  purpose.  Reestablished  contact  with  the 
world  brightened  and  humanized  him,  acting  with 
an  eroding  effect  on  a  surface  hardened  by  years  of 
lawless  roving.  In  his  voluntary  exile  he  had  not 
looked  for  or  wanted  the  company  of  his  fellows. 
Now  he  began  to  soften  under  it,  shift  his  view 
point  from  that  of  the  all-sufficing  individual  to 
that  of  the  bonded  mass  from  which  he  had  so  long 
been  an  alien.  The  girl's  influence  had  revivified 
a  side  almost  atrophied  by  disuse.  Men's  were  aid 
ing  it.  As  her  sympathies  narrowed  under  the  ob 
session  of  her  happiness,  his  expanded,  awaked  by 
a  reversion  to  forgotten  conditions. 

One  night,  lying  beside  her  under  the  tent's  roof, 
he  found  himself  wakeful.  It  was  starless  and  still, 
the  song  of  the  river  fusing  in  a  continuous  flow 

437 


The  Emigrant  Trail 

of  low  sound  with  the  secret,  self-communings  of 
the  tree.  The  girl's  light  breathing  was  at  his  ear, 
a  reminder  of  his  ownership  and  its  responsibilities. 
In  the  idleness  of  the  unoccupied  mind  he  mused 
on  the  future  they  were  to  share  till  death  should 
come  between.  It  was  pleasant  thinking,  or  so  it 
began.  Then,  gradually,  something  in  the  darkness 
and  the  lowered  vitality  of  night  caused  it  to  lose 
its  joy,  become  suffused  by  a  curious,  doubting  un 
easiness.  He  lay  without  moving,  given  up  to  the 
strange  feeling,  not  knowing  what  induced  it  or 
from  whence  it  came.  It  grew  in  poignancy, 
clearer  and  stronger,  till  it  led  him  like  a  clew  to  the 
body  of  David. 

For  the  first  time  that  savage  act  came  back  to 
him  with  a  surge  of  repudiation,  of  scared  denial. 
He  had  a  realizing  sense  of  how  it  would  look  to 
other  men — the  men  he  had  met  at  the  Fort.  Dis 
tinctly,  as  if  their  mental  attitude  were  substituted 
for  his,  he  saw  it  as  they  would  see  it,  as  the  world 
he  was  about  to  enter  would  see  it.  His  heart  be 
gan  to  thump  with  something  like  terror  and  the 
palms  of  his  hands  grew  moist.  Turning  stealthily 
that  he  might  not  wake  her,  he  stared  at  the  tri 
angle  of  paler  darkness  that  showed  through  the 
tent's  raised  flap.  He  had  no  fear  that  Susan  would 
find  out.  Even  if  she  did,  he  knew  her  securely  his, 
till  the  end  of  time,  her  thoughts  to  take  their  color 
from  him,  her  fears  to  be  lulled  at  his  wish.  But 
the  others — the  active,  busy,  practical  throng  into 
which  he  would  be  absorbed.  His  action,  in  the 

438 


The  Promised  Land 

heat  of  a  brutal  passion,  had  made  him  an  outsider 
from  the  close-drawn  ranks  of  his  fellows.  He  had 
been  able  to  do  without  them,  defied  their  laws, 
scorned  their  truckling  to  public  opinion — but 
now? 

The  girl  turned  in  her  sleep,  pressing  her  head 
against  his  shoulder  and  murmuring  drowsily.  He 
edged  away  from  her,  flinching  from  the  contact, 
feeling  a  grievance  against  her.  She  was  the  link 
between  him  and  them.  Hers  was  the  influence  that 
was  sapping  the  foundations  of  his  independence. 
She  was  drawing  him  back  to  the  place  of  lost 
liberty  outside  which  he  had  roamed  in  barbarous 
content.  His  love  was  riveting  bonds  upon  him, 
making  his  spirit  as  water.  He  felt  a  revolt,  a  re 
sistance  against  her  power,  which  was  gently  im 
pelling  him  toward  home,  hearth,  neighbors — the 
life  in  which  he  felt  his  place  was  gone. 

The  next  day  the  strange  mood  seemed  an  ugly 
dream.  It  was  not  he  who  had  lain  wakeful  and 
questioned  his  right  to  bend  Fate  to  his  own  de 
mands.  He  rode  beside  his  wife  at  the  head  of  the 
train  as  they  rolled  out  in  the  bright,  dry  morning 
on  the  road  to  the  river.  There  were  men  behind 
them,  and  in  front  the  dust  rose  thick  on  the  rear 
of  pack  trains.  They  filed  across  the  valley,  watch 
ing  the  foot  hills  come  nearer  and  the  muffling  robe 
of  the  chaparral  separate  into  checkered  shadings 
where  the  manzanita  glittered  and  the  faint,  bluish 
domes  of  small  pines  rose  above  the  woven  green 
ery. 

439 


The  Emigrant  Trail 

Men  were  already  before  them,  scattered  along 
the  river's  bars,  waist  high  in  the  pits.  Here  and 
there  a  tent  showed  white,  but  a  blanket  under  a 
tree,  a  pile  of  pans  by  a  blackened  heap  of  fire 
marked  most  of  the  camps.  Some  of  the  gold- 
hunters  had  not  waited  to  undo  their  packs  which 
lay  as  they  had  been  dropped,  and  the  owners,  squat 
ting  by  the  stream's  lip,  bent  over  their  pans  round 
which  the  water  sprayed  in  a  silver  fringe.  There 
were  hails  and  inquiries,  answering  cries  of  good  or 
ill  luck.  Many  did  not  raise  their  eyes,  too  ab 
sorbed  by  the  hope  of  fortune  to  waste  one  golden 
moment. 

These  were  the  vanguard,  the  forerunners  of 
next  year's  thousands,  scratching  the  surface  of  the 
lower  bars.  The  sound  of  their  voices  was  soon 
left  behind  and  the  river  ran  free  of  them.  Pack 
trains  dropped  from  the  line,  spreading  themselves 
along  the  rim  of  earth  between  the  trail  and  the 
shrunken  current.  Courant's  party  moved  on,  going 
higher,  veiled  in  a  cloud  of  brick-colored  dust.  The 
hills  swept  up  into  bolder  lines,  the  pines  mounted 
in  sentinel  files  crowding  out  the  lighter  leafage. 
At  each  turn  the  vista  showed  a  loftier  uprise,  crest 
peering  above  crest,  and  far  beyond,  high  and  snow- 
touched,  the  summits  of  the  Sierra.  The  shadows 
slanted  cool  from  wall  to  wall,  the  air  was  fresh 
and  scented  with  the  forest's  resinous  breath. 
Across  the  tree  tops,  dense  as  the  matted  texture 
of  moss,  the  winged  shadows  of  hawks  floated,  and 
paused,  and  floated  again. 

440 


The  Promised  Land 

Here  on  a  knoll  under  a  great  pine  they  pitched 
the  tent.  At  its  base  the  river  ran,  dwindled  to  a 
languid  current,  the  bared  mud  banks  waiting  for 
their  picks.  The  walls  of  the  canon  drew  close,  a 
drop  of  naked  granite  opposite,  and  on  the  slopes 
beyond  were  dark-aisled  depths,  golden-moted, 
and  stirred  to  pensive  melodies.  The  girl  start 
ed  to  help,  then  kicked  aside  the  up-piled  blank 
ets,  dropped  the  skillets  into  the  mess  chest,  and 
cried : 

"  Oh,  I  can't,  I  want  to  look  and  listen.  Keep 
still — "  The  men  stopped  their  work,  and  the  music 
of  the  murmurous  boughs  and  the  gliding  water 
filled  the  silence.  She  turned  her  head,  sniffing  the 
forest's  scents,  her  glance  lighting  on  the  blue 
shoulders  of  distant  hills. 

"  And  look  at  the  river,  yellow,  yellow  with  gold! 
I  can't  work  now,  I  want  to  see  it  all — and  feel  it 
too,"  and  she  ran  to  the  water's  edge  where  she  sat 
down  on  a  rock  and  gazed  up  and  down  the  canon. 

When  the  camp  was  ready  Courant  joined  her. 
The  rock  was  wide  enough  for  two  and  he  sat  be 
side  her. 

"  So  you  like  it,  Missy  ?  "  he  said,  sending  a  side 
long  glance  at  her  flushed  face. 

"  Like  it !  "  though  there  was  plenty  of  room  she 
edged  nearer  to  him,  "  I'm  wondering  if  it  really 
is  so  beautiful  or  if  I  just  think  it  so  after  the 
trail." 

"  You'll  be  content  to  stay  here  with  me  till  we've 
made  our  pile  ?  " 

441 


The  Emigrant  Trail 

She  looked  at  him  and  nodded,  then  slipped  her 
fingers  between  his  and  whispered,  though  there  was 
no  one  by  to  hear,  "  I'd  be  content  to  stay  anywhere 
with  you." 

He  was  growing  accustomed  to  this  sort  of  reply. 
Deprived  of  it  he  would  have  noticed  the  omission, 
but  it  had  of  late  become  so  common  a  feature  in  the 
conversation  he  felt  no  necessity  to  answer  in  kind. 
He  glanced  at  the  pine  trunks  about  them  and  said : 

"  If  the  claim's  good,  we'll  cut  some  of  those  and 
build  a  cabin.  You'll  see  how  comfortable  I  can 
make  you,  the  way  they  do  on  the  frontier." 

She  pressed  his  fingers  for  answer  and  he  went 
on: 

"  When  the  winter  comes  we  can  move  farther 
down.  Up  here  we  may  get  snow.  But  there'll  be 
time  between  now  and  then  to  put  up  something 
warm  and  waterproof." 

"  Why  should  we  move  down  ?  With  a  good 
cabin  we  can  be  comfortable  here.  The  snow  won't 
be  heavy  this  far  up.  They  told  Daddy  John  all 
about  it  at  the  Fort.  And  you  and  he  can  ride  in 
there  sometimes  when  we  want  things." 

These  simple  words  gratified  him  more  than  she 
guessed.  It  was  as  if  she  had  seen  into  the  secret 
springs  of  his  thought  and  said  what  he  was  fearful 
she  would  not  say.  That  was  why — in  a  spirit  of 
testing  a  granted  boon  to  prove  its  genuineness — 
he  asked  with  tentative  questioning: 

"  You  won't  be  lonely  ?  There  are  no  people 
here." 

442 


The  Promised  Land 

She  made  the  bride's  answer  and  his  contentment 
increased,  for  again  it  was  what  he  would  have 
wished  her  to  say.  When  he  answered  he  spoke 
almost  sheepishly,  with  something  of  uneasy  con 
fession  in  his  look : 

"  I'd  like  to  live  in  places  like  this  always.  I  feel 
choked  and  stifled  where  there  are  walls  shutting 
out  the  air  and  streets  full  of  people.  Even  in  the 
Fort  I  felt  like  a  trapped  animal.  I  want  to  be 
where  there's  room  to  move  about  and  nobody 
bothering  with  different  kinds  of  ideas.  It's  only 
in  the  open,  in  places  without  men,  that  I'm  myself." 

For  the  first  time  he  had  dared  to  give  expres 
sion  to  the  mood  of  the  wakeful  night.  Though  it 
was  dim  in  the  busy  brightness  of  the  present — a 
black  spot  on  the  luster  of  cheerful  days — he 
dreaded  that  it  might  come  again  with  its  scaring 
suggestions.  With  a  nerve  that  had  never  known 
a  tremor  at  any  menace  from  man,  he  was  fright 
ened  of  a  thought,  a  temporary  mental  state.  In 
speaking  thus  to  her,  he  recognized  her  as  a  help 
meet  to  whom  he  could  make  a  shamed  admission 
of  weakness  and  fear  no  condemnation  or  diminu 
tion  of  love.  This  time,  however,  she  made  the 
wrong  reply: 

"  But  we'll  go  down  to  the  coast  after  a  while,  if 
our  claim's  good  and  we  get  enough  dust  out  of  it. 
I  think  of  it  often.  It  will  be  so  nice  to  live  in  a 
house  again,  and  have  some  one  to  do  the  cooking, 
and  wear  pretty  clothes.  It  will  be  such  fun  living 
where  there  are  people  and  going  about  among 

443 


The  Emigrant  Trail 
them,  going  to  parties  and  maybe  having  parties  of 


our  own." 


He  withdrew  his  hand  from  hers  and  pushed  the 
hair  back  from  his  forehead.  Though  he  said  noth 
ing  she  was  conscious  of  a  drop  in  his  mood.  She 
bent  forward  to  peer  into  his  face  and  queried  with 
bright,  observing  eyes : 

"  You  don't  seem  to  like  the  thought  of  it." 

"  Oh,  it's  not  me,"  he  answered.  "  I  was  just 
wondering  at  the  queer  way  women  talk.  A  few 
minutes  ago  you  said  you'd  be  content  anywhere 
with  me.  Now  you  say  you  think  it  would  be  such 
fun  living  in  a  city  and  going  to  parties." 

"  With  you,  too,"  she  laughed,  pressing  against 
his  shoulder.  "  I  don't  want  to  go  to  the  parties 
alone." 

"  Well,  I  guess  if  you  ever  go  it'll  have  to  be 
alone,"  he  said  roughly. 

She  understood  now  that  she  had  said  something 
that  annoyed  him,  and  not  knowing  how  she  had 
come  to  do  it,  felt  aggrieved  and  sought  to  justify 
herself: 

"  But  we  can't  live  here  always.  If  we  make 
money  we'll  want  to  go  back  some  day  where  there 
are  people,  and  comforts  and  things  going  on. 
We'll  want  friends,  everybody  has  friends.  You 
don't  mean  for  us  always  to  stay  far  away  from 
everything  in  these  wild,  uncivilized  places  ?  " 

"  Why  not  ?  "  he  said,  not  looking  at  her,  noting 
her  rueful  tone  and  resenting  it. 

"  But  we're  not  that  kind  of  people.  You're  not 
444 


The  Promised  Land 

a  real  mountain  man.  You're  not  like  Zavier  or  the 
men  at  Fort  Laramie.  You're  Napoleon  Duchesney 
just  as  I'm  Susan  Gillespie.  Your  people  in  St. 
Louis  and  New  Orleans  were  ladies  and  gentlemen. 
It  was  just  a  wild  freak  that  made  you  run  off  into 
the  mountains.  You  don't  want  to  go  on  living 
that  way.  That  part  of  your  life's  over.  The  rest 
will  be  with  me." 

"  And  you'll  want  the  cities  and  the  parties?  " 

"  I'll  want  to  live  the  way  Mrs.  Duchesney  should 
live,  and  you'll  want  to,  too."  He  did  not  answer, 
and  she  gave  his  arm  a  little  shake  and  said, 
"Won't  you?" 

"  I'm  more  Low  Courant  than  I  am  Napoleon 
Duchesney,"  was  his  answer. 

"  Well,  maybe  so,  but  whichever  you  are,  you've 
got  a  wife  now  and  that  makes  a  great  difference." 

She  tried  to  infuse  some  of  her  old  coquetry  into 
the  words,  but  the  eyes,  looking  sideways  at  him, 
were  troubled,  for  she  did  not  yet  see  where  she  had 
erred. 

"  I  guess  it  does,"  he  said  low,  more  as  if  speak 
ing  to  himself  than  her. 

This  time  she  said  nothing,  feeling  dashed  and 
repulsed.  They  continued  to  sit  close  together  on 
the  rock,  the  man  lost  in  morose  reverie,  the  girl 
afraid  to  move  or  touch  him  lest  he  should  show 
further  annoyance. 

The  voice  of  Daddy  John  calling  them  to  supper 
came  to  both  with  relief.  They  walked  to  the  camp 
side  by  side,  Low  with  head  drooped,  the  girl  at  his 

445 


The  Emigrant  Trail 

elbow  stealing  furtive  looks  at  him.  As  they  ap 
proached  the  fire  she  slid  her  hand  inside  his  arm 
and,  glancing  down,  he  saw  the  timid  questioning  of 
her  face  and  was  immediately  contrite.  He  laid  his 
hand  on  hers  and  smiled,  and  she  caught  her  breath 
in  a  deep  sigh  and  felt  happiness  come  rushing  back. 
Whatever  it  was  she  had  said  that  displeased  him 
she  would  be  careful  not  to  say  it  again,  for  she  had 
already  learned  that  the  lion  in  love  is  still  the  lion. 


446 


CHAPTER   II 

THEIR  claim  was  rich  and  they  buckled  down  to 
work,  the  old  man  constructing  a  rocker  after  a 
model  of  his  own,  and  Courant  digging  in  the  pits. 
Everything  was  with  them,  rivals  were  few,  the 
ground  uncrowded,  the  season  dry.  It  was  the 
American  River  before  the  Forty-niners  swarmed 
along  its  edges,  and  there  was  gold  in  its  sands,  sunk 
in  a  sediment  below  its  muddy  deposit,  caked  in 
cracks  through  the  rocks  round  which  its  currents 
had  swept  for  undisturbed  ages. 

They  worked  feverishly,  the  threat  of  the  winter 
rains  urging  them  on.  The  girl  helped,  leaving  her 
kettle  settled  firm  on  a  bed  of  embers  while  the  wa 
ter  heated  for  dish  washing,  to  join  them  on  the 
shore,  heaped  with  their  earth  piles.  She  kept  the 
rocker  in  motion  while  the  old  man  dipped  up 
the  water  in  a  tin  ladle  and  sent  it  running  over  the 
sifting  bed  of  sand  and  pebbles.  The  heavier  labor 
of  digging  was  Courant's.  Before  September  was 
over  the  shore  was  honeycombed  with  his  excava 
tions,  driven  down  to  the  rock  bed.  The  diminish 
ing  stream  shrunk  with  each  day  and  he  stood  in 
it  knee  high,  the  sun  beating  on  his  head,  his  clothes 
pasted  to  his  skin  by  perspiration,  and  the  thud  of 

447 


The  Emigrant  Trail 

his  pick  falling  with  regular  stroke  on  the  monot 
onous  rattle  of  the  rocker. 

Sometimes  she  was  tired  and  they  ordered  her  to 
leave  them  and  rest  in  the  shade  of  the  camp.  She 
loitered  about  under  the  spread  of  the  pine  boughs, 
cleaning  and  tidying  up,  and  patching  the  ragged 
remnants  of  their  clothes.  Often,  as  she  sat  propped 
against  the  trunk,  her  sewing  fell  to  her  lap  and 
she  looked  out  with  shining,  spell-bound  eyes.  The 
men  were  shapes  of  dark  importance  against  the 
glancing  veil  of  water,  the  soaked  sands  and  the 
low  brushwood  yellowing  in  the  autumn's  soft, 
transforming  breath.  Far  away  the  film  of  whit 
ened  summits  dreamed  against  the  blue.  In  the 
midwash  of  air,  aloft  and  dreaming,  too,  the  hawk's 
winged  form  poised,  its  shadow  moving  below  it 
across  the  sea  of  tree  tops. 

She  would  sit  thus,  motionless  and  idle,  as  the 
long  afternoon  wore  away,  and  deep-colored  veils 
of  twilight  gathered  in  the  canon.  She  told  the 
men  the  continuous  sounds  of  their  toil  made  her 
drowsy.  But  her  stillness  was  the  outward  sign  of 
an  inner  concentration.  If  delight  in  rest  had  re 
placed  her  old  bodily  energy,  her  mind  had  gained 
a  new  activity.  She  wondered  a  little  at  it,  not  yet 
at  the  heart  of  her  own  mystery.  Her  thoughts 
reached  forward  into  the  future,  busied  themselves 
with  details  of  the  next  twelve  months,  dwelt  anx 
iously  on  questions  of  finance.  The  nest-building 
instinct  was  astir  in  her  and  she  pondered  on  the 
house  they  were  to  build,  how  they  must  arrange 

448 


The  Promised  Land 

something  for  a  table,  and  maybe  fashion  arm 
chairs  of  barrels  and  red  flannel.  Finally,  in  a  last 
voluptuous  flight  of  ecstasy,  she  saw  herself  riding 
into  Sacramento  with  a  sack  of  dust  and  abandon 
ing  herself  to  an  orgie  of  bartering. 

One  afternoon  three  men,  two  Mexicans  and  an 
Australian  sailor  from  a  ship  in  San  Francisco  cove, 
stopped  at  the  camp  for  food.  The  Australian  was 
a  loquacious  fellow,  with  faculties  sharpened  by 
glimpses  of  life  in  many  ports.  He  told  them  of  the 
two  emigrant  convoys  he  had  just  seen  arrive  in 
Sacramento,  worn  and  wasted  by  the  last  forced 
marches  over  the  mountains.  Susan,  who  had  been 
busy  over  her  cooking,  according  him  scant  atten 
tion,  at  his  description  of  the  trains,  suddenly  lifted 
intent  eyes  and  leaned  toward  him : 

"  Did  you  see  a  man  among  them,  a  young  man, 
tall  and  thin,  with  black  hair  and  beard  ?  " 

"All  the  men  were  tall  and  thin,  or  any  ways 
thin,"  said  the  sailor,  laughing.  "How  tall  was 
he?" 

"  Six  feet,"  she  replied,  her  face  devoid  of  any 
answering  smile,  "  with  high  shoulders  and  walking 
with  a  stoop.  He  had  a  fine,  handsome  face,  and 
long  black  hair  to  his  shoulders  and  gray  eyes." 

"  Have  you  lost  your  sweetheart  ?  "  said  the  man, 
who  did  not  know  the  relations  of  the  party. 

"  No,"  she  said  gravely,  "  my  friend." 

Courant  explained: 

"  She's  my  wife.  The  man  she's  speaking  of  was 
a  member  of  our  company  that  we  lost  on  the  desert. 

449 


The  Emigrant  Trail 

We  thought  Indians  had  got  him  and  hoped  he'd 
get  away  and  join  with  a  later  westbound  train. 
His  name  was  David." 

The  sailor  shook  his  head. 

"  Ain't  seen  no  one  answering  to  that  name,  nor 
to  that  description.  There  wasn't  a  handsome-fea 
tured  one  in  the  lot,  nor  a  David.  But  if  you're 
expecting  him  along,  why  don't  you  take  her  in 
and  let  her  look  'em  over?  They  told  me  at  the 
Fort  the  trains  was  mostly  all  in  or  ought  to  be. 
Any  time  now  the  snow  on  the  summit  will  be  too 
deep  for  'em.  If  they  get  caught  up  there  they 
can't  be  got  out,  so  they're  coming  over  hot  foot 
and  are  dumped  down  round  Hock  Farm.  Not 
much  to  see,  but  if  you're  looking  for  a  friend  it's 
worth  trying." 

That  night  Courant  was  again  wakeful.  Susan's 
face,  as  she  had  questioned  the  sailor,  floated  before 
him  on  the  darkness.  With  it  came  the  thought  of 
the  dead  man.  In  the  silence  David  called  upon  him 
from  the  sepulcher  beneath  the  rock,  sent  a  message 
through  the  night  which  said  that,  though  he  was 
hidden  from  mortal  vision,  the  memory  of  him  was 
still  alive,  imbued  with  an  unquenchable  vitality. 
His  unwinking  eyes,  with  the  rock  crumbs  sifting 
on  them,  looked  at  those  of  his  triumphant  enemy 
and  spoke  through  their  dusted  films.  In  the  mo 
ment  of  death  they  had  said  nothing  to  him,  now 
they  shone — not  angrily  accusing  as  they  had  been 
in  life — but  stern  with  a  vindictive  purpose. 

Courant  began  to  have  a  fearful  understanding 

450 


The  Promised  Land 

of  their  meaning.  Though  dead  to  the  rest  of  the 
world,  David  would  maintain  an  intense  and  secret 
life  in  his  murderer's  conscience.  He  had  never 
fought  such  a  subtle  and  implacable  foe,  and  he  lay 
thinking  of  how  he  could  create  conditions  that 
would  give  him  escape,  push  the  phantom  from  him, 
make  him  forget,  and  be  as  he  had  been  when  no  one 
had  disputed  his  sovereignty  over  himself.  He  tried 
to  think  that  time  would  mitigate  this  haunting  dis 
comfort.  His  sense  of  guilt,  his  fear  of  his  wife, 
would  die  when  the  novelty  of  once  again  being  one 
with  the  crowd  had  worn  away.  It  was  not  pos 
sible  that  he,  defiant  of  man  and  God,  could  languish 
under  this  dread  of  a  midnight  visitation  or  a  dis 
covery  that  never  would  be  made.  It  was  the  re- 
entering  into  the  communal  life  that  had  upset  his 
poise — or  was  it  the  influence  of  the  woman,  the 
softly  pervasive,  enervating  influence?  He  came  up 
against  this  thought  with  a  dizzying  impact  and  felt 
himself  droop  and  sicken  as  one  who  is  faced  with 
a  task  for  which  his  strength  is  inadequate. 

He  turned  stealthily  and  lay  on  his  back,  his  face 
beaded  with  sweat.  The  girl  beside  him  waked  and 
sat  up  casting  a  side  glance  at  him.  By  the  starlight, 
slanting  in  through  the  raised  tent  door,  she  saw  his 
opened  eyes  and,  leaning  toward  him,  a  black  shape 
against  the  faintly  blue  triangle,  said : 

"Low,  are  you  awake?" 

He  answered  without  moving,  glad  to  hear  her 
speak,  to  know  that  sleep  had  left  her  and  her  voice 
might  conjure  away  his  black  imaginings. 

451    - 


The  Emigrant  Trail 

"  Why  aren't  you  sleeping?  "  she  asked.  "  You 
must  be  half  dead  after  such  work  as  you  did  to 
day." 

"I  was  thinking — "  then  hastily,  for  he  was 
afraid  that  she  might  sense  his  mood  and  ply  him 
with  sympathetic  queries :  "  Sometimes  people  are 
too  tired  to  sleep.  I  am,  and  so  I  was  lying  here 
just  thinking  of  nothing." 

His  fears  were  unnecessary.  She  was  as  health 
ily  oblivious  of  his  disturbance  as  he  was  morbidly 
conscious  of  it.  She  sat  still,  her  hands  clasped 
round  her  knees,  about  which  the  blanket  draped 
blackly. 

"  I  was  thinking,  too,"  she  said. 

"Of  what?" 

"  Of  what  that  man  was  saying  of  David." 

There  was  a  silence.  He  lay  motionless,  his 
trouble  coming  back  upon  him.  He  wished  that  he 
might  dare  to  impose  upon  her  a  silence  on  that  one 
subject.  David,  given  a  place  in  her  mind,  would 
sit  at  every  feast,  walk  beside  them,  lie  between 
them  in  their  marriage  bed." 

"  Why  do  you  think  of  him?  "  he  asked. 

"  Because — "  her  tone  showed  surprise.  "  It's 
natural,  isn't  it?  Don't  you?  I'm  sure  you  do.  I 
do  often,  much  oftener  than  you  think.  I'm  always 
hoping  that  he'll  come." 

"  You  never  loved  him,"  he  said,  in  a  voice  from 
which  all  spring  was  gone. 

"  No,  but  he  was  my  friend,  and  I  would  like  to 
keep  him  so  for  always.  I  think  of  his  kindness,  his 

452 


The  Promised  Land 

gentleness,  all  the  good  part  of  him  before  the  trail 
broke  him  down.  And,  I  think,  too,  how  cruel  I 
was  to  him." 

The  darkness  hid  her  face,  but  her  voice  told  that 
she,  too,  had  her  little  load  of  guilt  where  David  was 
concerned. 

The  man  moved  uneasily. 

"  That's  foolishness.  You  only  told  the  truth.  If 
it  was  cruel,  that's  not  your  affair." 

"  He  loved  me.     A  woman  doesn't  forget  that." 

"  That's  over  and  done  with.  He's  probably  here 
somewhere,  come  through  with  a  train  that's  scat 
tered.  And,  anyway,  you  can't  do  any  good  by 
thinking  about  him." 

This  time  the  false  reassurances  came  with  the 
pang  that  the  dead  man  was  rousing  in  tardy  retribu 
tion. 

"  I  should  like  to  know  it,"  she  said  wistfully,  "  to 
feel  sure.  It's  the  only  thing  that  mars  our  happi 
ness.  If  I  knew  he  was  safe  and  well  somewhere 
there'd  be  nothing  in  the  world  for  me  but  perfect 
joy." 

Her  egotism  of  satisfied  body  and  spirit  jarred 
upon  him.  The  passion  she  had  evoked  had  found 
no  peace  in  its  fulfillment.  She  had  got  what  he  had 
hoped  for.  All  that  he  had  anticipated  was  de 
stroyed  by  the  unexpected  intrusion  of  a  part  of  him 
self  that  had  lain  dead  till  she  had  quickened  it,  and 
quickening  it  she  had  killed  his  joy.  In  a  flash  of 
divination  he  saw  that,  if  she  persisted  in  her  worry 
over  David,  she  would  rouse  in  him  an  antagonism 

453 


The  Emigrant  Trail 

that  would  eventually  drive  him  from  her.  He 
spoke  with  irritation : 

"  Put  him  out  of  your  mind.  Don't  worry  about 
him.  You  can't  do  any  good,  and  it  spoils  our  love." 

After  a  pause,  she  said  with  a  hesitating  attempt 
at  cajolery : 

"  Let  me  and  Daddy  John  drive  into  the  valley 
and  try  and  get  news  of  him.  We  need  supplies 
and  we'll  be  gone  only  two  or  three  days.  We  can 
inquire  at  the  Fort  and  maybe  go  on  to  Sacramento, 
and  if  he's  been  there  we'll  hear  of  it.  If  we  could 
only  hear,  just  hear,  he  was  safe,  it  would  be  such 
a  relief.  It  would  take  away  this  dreary  feeling  of 
anxiety,  and  guilt  too,  Low.  For  I  feel  guilty  when 
I  think  of  how  we  left  him." 

"  Where  was  the  guilt  ?  You've  no  right  to  say 
that.  You  understood  we  had  to  go.  I  could  take 
no  risks  with  you  and  the  old  man." 

"  Yes,"  she  said,  slowly,  tempering  her  agree 
ment  with  a  self-soothing  reluctance,  "  but  even 
so,  it  seemed  terrible.  I  often  tell  myself  we  couldn't 
have  done  anything  else,  but " 

Her  voice  dropped  to  silence  and  she  sat  staring 
out  at  the  quiet  night,  her  head  blurred  with  the  fila 
ments  of  loosened  hair. 

He  did  not  speak,  gripped  by  his  internal  torment, 
aggravated  now  by  torment  from  without.  He  won 
dered,  if  he  told  her  the  truth,  would  she  understand 
and  help  him  to  peace.  But  he  knew  that  such 
knowledge  would  set  her  in  a  new  attitude  toward 
him,  an  attitude  of  secret  judgment,  of  distracted 

454 


The  Promised  Land 

pity,  of  an  agonized  partisanship  built  on  loyalty  and 
the  despairing  passion  of  the  disillusioned.  He  could 
never  tell  her,  for  he  could  never  support  the  loss 
of  her  devoted  belief,  which  was  now  the  food  of 
his  life. 

"Can  I  go?"  she  said,  turning  to  look  at  him, 
smiling  confidently  as  one  who  knows  the  formal 
demand  unnecessary. 

"  If  you  want,"  he  answered. 

"Then  we'll  start  to-morrow,"  she  said,  and, 
leaning  down,  kissed  him. 

He  was  unresponsive  to  the  touch  of  her  lips,  lay 
inert  as  she  nestled  down  into  soft-breathing,  child 
like  sleep.  He  watched  the  tent  opening  pale  into  a 
glimmering  triangle  wondering  what  their  life  would 
be  with  the  specter  of  David  standing  in  the  path, 
an  angel  with  a  flaming  sword  barring  the  way  to 
Paradise. 

Two  days  later  she  and  Daddy  John,  sitting  on 
the  front  seat  of  the  wagon,  saw  the  low  drab  out 
lines  of  the  Fort  rising  from  the  plain.  Under  their 
tree  was  a  new  encampment,  one  tent  with  the  hood 
of  a  wagon  behind  it,  and  oxen  grazing  in  the  sun. 
As  they  drew  near  they  could  see  the  crouched 
forms  of  two  children,  the  light  filtering  through 
the  leafage  on  the  silky  flax  of  their  heads.  They 
were  occupied  over  a  game,  evidently  a  serious  busi 
ness,  its  floor  of  operations  the  smooth  ground  worn 
bare  about  the  camp  fire.  One  of  them  lay  flat  with 
a  careful  hand  patting  the  dust  into  mounds,  the 
other  squatted  near  by  watching,  a  slant  of  white 

455 


The  Emigrant  Trail 

hair  falling  across  a  rounded  cheek.  They  did  not 
heed  the  creak  of  the  wagon  wheels,  but  as  a  wom 
an's  voice  called  from  the  tent,  raised  their  heads 
listening,  but  not  answering,  evidently  deeming  si 
lence  the  best  safeguard  against  interruption. 

Susan  laid  a  clutching  hand  on  Daddy  John's  arm. 

"  It's  the  children,"  she  cried  in  a  choked  voice. 
"  Stop,  stop !  "  and  before  he  could  rein  the  mules  to 
order  she  was  out  and  running  toward  them,  calling 
their  names. 

They  made  a  clamor  of  welcome,  Bob  running  to 
her  and  making  delighted  leaps  up  at  her  face,  the 
little  girl  standing  aloof  for  the  first  bashful  mo 
ment,  then  sidling  nearer  with  mouth  upheld  for 
kisses.  Bella  heard  them  and  came  to  the  tent  door, 
gave  a  great  cry,  and  ran  to  them.  There  were 
tears  on  her  cheeks  as  she  clasped  Susan,  held  her 
off  and  clutched  her  again,  with  panted  ejaculations 
of  "  Deary  me !  "  and  "  Oh,  Lord,  Missy,  is  it  you?  " 

It  was  like  a  meeting  on  the  other  side  of  the 
grave.  They  babbled  their  news,  both  talking  at 
once,  not  stopping  to  finish  sentences,  or  wait  for 
the  answer  to  questions  of  the  marches  they  had  not 
shared.  Over  the  clamor  they  looked  at  each  other 
with  faces  that  smiled  and  quivered,  the  tie  between 
them  strengthened  by  the  separation  when  each  had 
longed  for  the  other,  closer  in  understanding  by 
the  younger's  added  experience,  both  now  women. 

Glen  was  at  the  Fort  and  Daddy  John  rolled  off 
to  meet  him  there.  The  novelty  of  the  moment  over, 
the  children  returned  sedately  to  their  play,  and  the 

456 


The  Promised  Land 

women  sat  together  under  the  canopy  of  the  tree. 
Bella's  adventures  had  been  few  and  tame,  Susan's 
was  the  great  story.  She  was  not  discursive  about 
her  marriage.  She  was  still  shy  on  the  subject  and 
sensitively  aware  of  the  disappointment  that  Bella 
was  too  artlessly  amazed  to  conceal.  She  passed 
over  it  quickly,  pretending  that  she  did  not  hear 
Bella's  astonished: 

"  But  why  did  you  get  married  at  Humboldt  ? 
Why  didn't  you  wait  till  you  got  here?  " 

It  was  the  loss  of  David  that  she  made  the  point 
of  her  narrative,  anxiously  impressing  on  her  listener 
their  need  of  going  on.  She  stole  quick  looks  at 
Bella,  watchful  for  the  first  shade  of  disapprobation, 
with  all  Low's  arguments  ready  to  sweep  it  aside. 
But  Bella,  with  maternal  instincts  in  place  of  a  com 
prehensive  humanity,  agreed  that  Low  had  done 
right.  Nature,  in  the  beginning,  combined  with  the 
needs  of  the  trail,  had  given  her  a  viewpoint  where 
expediency  counted  for  more  than  altruism.  She 
with  two  children  and  a  helpless  man  would  have 
gone  on  and  left  anyone  to  his  fate.  She  did  not 
say  this,  but  Susan,  with  intelligence  sharpened  by 
a  jealous  passion,  felt  that  there  was  no  need  to  de 
fend  her  husband's  action.  As  for  the  rest  of  the 
world — deep  in  her  heart  she  had  already  decided  it 
should  never  know. 

"  You  couldn't  have  done  anything  else,"  said 
Bella.  "  I've  learned  that  when  you're  doing  that 
sort  of  thing,  you  can't  have  the  same  feelings  you 
can  back  in  the  States,  with  everything  handy  and 

457 


The  Emigrant  Trail 

comfortable.     You  can  be  fair,  but  you  got  to  fight 
for  your  own.     They  got  to  come  first." 

She  had  neither  seen  nor  heard  anything  of  David. 
No  rumor  of  a  man  held  captive  by  the  Indians  had 
reached  their  train.  She  tried  not  to  let  Susan  see 
that  she  believed  the  worst.  But  her  melancholy 
headshake  and  murmured  "  Poor  David — and  him 
such  a  kind,  whole-hearted  man  "  was  as  an  obituary 
on  the  dead. 

"  Well,"  she  said  in  pensive  comment  when  Su 
san  had  got  to  the  end  of  her  history,  "  you  can't 
get  through  a  journey  like  that  without  some  one 
coming  to  grief.  It's  not  in  human  nature.  But 
your  father — that  grand  man !  And  then  the  young 
feller  that  would  have  made  you  such  a  good  hus 
band — "  Susan  moved  warningly — "  Not  but  what 
I'm  sure  you've  got  as  good  a  one  as  it  is.  And 
we've  got  to  take  what  we  can  get  in  this  world," 
she  added,  spoiling  it  all  by  the  philosophical  ac 
ceptance  of  what  she  evidently  regarded  as  a  make 
shift  adjusting  to  Nature's  needs. 

When  the  men  came  back  Glen  had  heard  all  about 
the  gold  in  the  river  and  was  athirst  to  get  there. 
Work  at  his  trade  could  wait,  and,  anyway,  he  had 
been  in  Sacramento  and  found,  while  his  services 
were  in  demand  on  every  side,  the  materials  where 
with  he  was  to  help  raise  a  weatherproof  city  were 
not  to  be  had.  Men  were  content  to  live  in  tents 
and  cloth  shacks  until  the  day  of  lumber  and  saw 
mills  dawned,  and  why  wait  for  this  millennium 
when  the  river  called  from  its  golden  sands? 

458 


The  Promised  Land 

No  one  had  news  of  David.  Daddy  John  had 
questioned  the  captains  of  two  recently  arrived  con 
voys,  but  learned  nothing.  The  men  thought  it  like 
ly  he  was  dead.  They  agreed  as  to  the  possibility 
of  the  Indian  abduction  and  his  future  reappearance. 
Such  things  had  happened.  But  it  was  too  late  now 
to  do  anything.  No  search  party  could  be  sent  out 
at  this  season  when  at  any  day  the  mountain  trails 
might  be  neck  high  in  snow.  There  was  nothing 
to  do  but  wait  till  the  spring. 

Susan  listened  with  lowered  brows.  It  was  heavy 
news.  She  did  not  know  how  she  had  hoped  till 
she  heard  that  all  hope  must  lie  in  abeyance  for  at 
least  six  months.  It  was  a  long  time  to  be  patient. 
She  was  selfishly  desirous  to  have  her  anxieties  at 
rest,  for,  as  she  had  told  her  husband,  they  were 
the  only  cloud  on  her  happiness,  and  she  wanted 
that  happiness  complete.  It  was  not  necessary  for 
her  peace  to  see  David  again.  To  know  he  was  safe 
somewhere  would  have  satisfied  her. 

The  fifth  day  after  leaving  the  camp  they  sighted 
the  pitted  shores  of  their  own  diggings.  Sitting  in 
the  McMurdos'  wagon  they  had  speculated  gayly 
on  Low's  surprise.  Susan,  on  the  seat  beside  Glen, 
had  been  joyously  full  of  the  anticipation  of  it, 
wondered  what  he  would  say,  and  then  fell  to  im 
agining  it  with  closed  lips  and  dancing  eyes.  When 
the  road  reached  the  last  concealing  buttress  she 
climbed  down  and  mounted  beside  Daddy  John, 
whose  wagon  was  some  distance  in  advance. 

"  It's  going  to  be  a  surprise  for  Low,"  she  said 
459 


The  Emigrant  Trail 

in  the  voice  of  a  mischievous  child.  "  You  mustn't 
say  anything.  Let  me  tell  him." 

The  old  man,  squinting  sideways  at  her,  gave  his 
wry  smile.  It  was  good  to  see  his  Missy  this  way 
again,  in  bloom  like  a  refreshed  flower. 

"  Look,"  she  cried,  as  her  husband's  figure  came 
into  view  kneeling  by  the  rocker.  "  There  he  is,  and 
he  doesn't  see  us.  Stop !  " 

Courant  heard  their  wheels  and,  turning,  started 
to  his  feet  and  came  forward,  the  light  in  his  face 
leaping  to  hers.  She  sprang  down  and  ran  toward 
him,  her  arms  out.  Daddy  John,  slashing  the  way 
side  bushes  with  his  whip,  looked  reflectively  at  the 
bending  twigs  while  the  embrace  lasted.  The  Mc- 
Murdos'  curiosity  was  not  restrained  by  any  such 
inconvenient  delicacy.  They  peeped  from  under  the 
wagon  hood,  grinning  appreciatively,  Bella  the  while 
maintaining  a  silent  fight  with  the  children,  who 
struggled  for  an  exit.  None  of  them  could  hear 
what  the  girl  said,  but  they  saw  Courant  suddenly 
look  with  a  changed  face,  its  light  extinguished, 
at  the  second  wagon. 

"  He  don't  seem  so  terrible  glad  to  see  us,"  said 
Glen.  "  I  guess  he  wanted  to  keep  the  place  for 
himself." 

Bella  noted  the  look  and  snorted. 

"  He's  a  cross-grained  thing,"  she  said ;  "  I  don't 
see  what  got  into  her  to  marry  him  when  she  could 
have  had  David." 

"  She  can't  have  him  when  he  ain't  round  to  be 
had,"  her  husband  answered.  "  Low's  better  than 

460 


The  Promised  Land 

a  man  that's  either  a  prisoner  with  the  Indians  or 
dead  somewhere.  David  was  a  good  boy,  but  I 
don't  seem  to  see  he'd  be  much  use  to  her  now." 

Bella  sniffed  again,  and  let  the  squirming  children 
go  to  get  what  good  they  could  out  of  the  un 
promising  moment  of  the  surprise. 

What  Low  had  said  to  Susan  was  an  angry, 

"  Why  did  you  bring  them?  " 

She  fell  back  from  him  not  so  crestfallen  at  his 
words  as  at  his  dark  frown  of  disapproval. 

"  Why,  I  wanted  them,"  she  faltered,  bewildered 
by  his  obvious  displeasure  at  what  she  thought 
would  be  welcome  news,  "  and  I  thought  you 
would." 

"  I'd  rather  you  hadn't.  Aren't  we  enough  by 
ourselves  ?  " 

"  Yes,  of  course.  But  they're  our  friends.  We 
traveled  with  them  for  days  and  weeks,  and  it's  made 
them  like  relations.  I  was  so  glad  to  see  them  I 
cried  when  I  saw  Bella.  Oh,  do  try  and  seem  more 
as  if  you  liked  it.  They're  here  and  I've  brought 
them." 

He  slouched  forward  to  greet  them.  She  was 
relieved  to  see  that  he  made  an  effort  to  banish  his 
annoyance  and  put  some  warmth  of  welcome  into 
his  voice.  But  the  subtlety  with  which  he  could 
conceal  his  emotions  when  it  behooved  him  had  de 
serted  him,  and  Bella  and  Glen  saw  the  husband  did 
not  stand  toward  them  as  the  wife  did. 

It  was  Susan  who  infused  into  the  meeting  a  fe 
vered  and  fictitious  friendliness,  chattering  over  the 

461 


The  Emigrant  Trail 

pauses  that  threatened  to  fall  upon  it,  leaving  them 
a  reunited  company  only  in  name.  She  presently 
swept  Bella  to  the  camp,  continuing  her  nervous 
prattle  as  she  showed  her  the  tent  and  the  spring 
behind  it,  and  told  of  the  log  house  they  were  to 
raise  before  the  rains  came.  Bella  was  placated. 
After  all,  it  was  a  lovely  spot,  good  for  the  children, 
and  if  Glen  could  do  as  well  on  a  lower  bend  of  the 
river  as  they  had  done  here,  it  looked  as  if  they  had 
at  last  found  the  Promised  Land. 

After  supper  they  sat  by  Daddy  John's  fire,  which 
shot  an  eddying  column  of  sparks  into  the  plumed 
darkness  of  the  pine.  It  was  like  old  times  only — 
with  a  glance  outward  toward  the  water  and  the 
star-strewn  sky — so  much  more — what  was  the 
word  ?  Not  quiet ;  they  could  never  forget  the  desert 
silence.  "  Homelike,"  Susan  suggested,  and  they 
decided  that  was  the  right  word. 

:f  You  feel  as  if  you  could  stay  here  and  not  want 
to  move  on,"  Bella  opined. 

Glen  thought  perhaps  you  felt  that  way  because 
you  knew  you'd  come  to  the  end  and  couldn't  move 
much  farther. 

But  the  others  argued  him  down.  They  all 
agreed  there  was  something  in  the  sun  maybe,  or 
the  mellow  warmth  of  the  air,  or  the  richness  of 
wooded  slope  and  plain,  that  made  them  feel  they 
had  found  a  place  where  they  could  stay,  not  for  a 
few  days'  rest,  but  forever.  Susan  had  hit  upon  the 
word  "  homelike,"  the  spot  on  earth  that  seemed  to 
you  the  one  best  fitted  for  a  home. 

462 


The  Promised  Land 

The  talk  swung  back  to  days  on  the  trail  and 
finally  brought  up  on  David.  They  rehearsed  the 
tragic  story,  conned  over  the  details  that  had  be 
gun  to  form  into  narrative  sequence  as  in  the  time- 
worn  lay  of  a  minstrel.  Bella  and  Glen  asked  all 
the  old  questions  that  had  once  been  asked  by  Su 
san  and  Daddy  John,  and  heard  the  same  answers, 
leaning  to  catch  them  while  the  firelight  played  on 
the  strained  attention  of  their  faces.  With  the  night 
pressing  close  around  them,  and  the  melancholy,  sea- 
like  song  sweeping  low  from  the  forest,  a  chill  crept 
upon  them,  and  their  lost  comrade  became  invested 
with  the  unreality  of  a  spirit.  Dead  in  that  bleak 
and  God-forgotten  land,  or  captive  in  some  Indian 
stronghold,  he  loomed  a  tragic  phantom  remote 
from  them  and  their  homely  interests  like  a  his 
torical  figure  round  which  legend  has  begun  to  ac 
cumulate. 

The  awed  silence  that  had  fallen  was  broken  by 
Courant  rising  and  walking  away  toward  the  dig 
gings.  This  brought  their  somber  pondering  to  an 
end.  Bella  and  Glen  picked  up  the  sleeping  children 
and  went  to  their  tent,  and  Susan,  peering  beyond 
the  light,  saw  her  man  sitting  on  a  stone,  dark 
against  the  broken  silver  of  the  stream.  She  stole 
down  to  him  and  laid  her  hand  on  his  shoulder. 
He  started  as  if  her  touch  scared  him,  then  saw  who 
it  was  and  turned  away  with  a  gruff  murmur.  The 
sound  was  not  encouraging,  but  the  wife,  already  so 
completely  part  of  him  that  his  moods  were  com 
municated  to  her  through  the  hidden  subways  of 

463 


The  Emigrant  Trail 

instinct,  understood  that  he  was  in  some  unconfessed 
trouble. 

"  What's  the  matter,  Low  ?  "  she  asked,  bending 
to  see  his  face. 

He  turned  it  toward  her,  met  the  penetrating  in 
quiry  of  her  look,  and  realized  his  dependence  on 
her,  feeling  his  weakness  but  not  caring  just  then 
that  he  should  be  weak. 

"  Nothing,"  he  answered.  "  Why  do  they  harp 
so  on  David  ?  " 

"Don't  you  like  them  to?"  she  asked  in  some 
surprise. 

He  took  a  splinter  from  the  stone  and  threw  it 
into  the  water,  a  small  silvery  disturbance  marking 
its  fall. 

'  There's  nothing  more  to  be  said.  It's  all  useless 
talk.  We  can  do  no  more  than  we've  done." 

"  Shall  I  tell  them  you  don't  like  the  subject,  not 
to  speak  of  it  again  ?  " 

He  glanced  at  her  with  sudden  suspicion : 

"  No,  no,  of  course  not.  They've  a  right  to  say 
anything  they  please.  But  it's  a  waste  of  time, 
there's  nothing  but  guessing  now.  What's  the  use 
of  guessing  and  wondering  all  through  the  winter. 
Are  they  going  to  keep  on  that  way  till  the  spring?  " 

"  I'll  tell  them  not  to,"  she  said  as  a  simple  solu 
tion  of  the  difficulty.  "  I'll  tell  them  it  worries  you." 

"  Don't,"  he  said  sharply.  "  Do  you  hear  ?  Don't. 
Do  you  want  to  act  like  a  fool  and  make  me  angry 
with  you  ?  " 

He  got  up  and  moved  away,  leaving  her  staring 
464 


The  Promised  Land 

blankly  at  his  back.  He  had  been  rough  to  her 
often,  but  never  before  spoken  with  this  note  of  per 
emptory,  peevish  displeasure.  She  felt  an  obscure 
sense  of  trouble,  a  premonition  of  disaster.  She 
went  to  him  and,  standing  close,  put  her  hand  inside 
his  arm. 

"  Low,"  she  pleaded,  "what's  wrong  with  you? 
You  were  angry  that  they  came.  Now  you're  an 
gry  at  what  they  say.  I  don't  understand.  Tell  me 
the  reason  of  it.  If  there's  something  that  I  don't 
know  let  me  hear  it,  and  I'll  try  and  straighten  things 
out." 

For  a  tempted  moment  he  longed  to  tell  her,  to 
gain  ease  by  letting  her  share  his  burden.  The  hand 
upon  his  arm  was  a  symbol  of  her  hold  upon  him 
that  no  action  of  his  could  ever  loose.  If  he  could 
admit  her  within  the  circle  of  his  isolation  he 
would  have  enough.  He  would  lose  the  baleful  con 
sciousness  of  forever  walking  apart,  separated  from 
his  kind,  a  spiritual  Ishmaelite.  She  had  strength 
enough.  For  the  moment  he  felt  that  she  was  the 
stronger  of  the  two,  able  to  bear  more  than  he,  able 
to  fortify  him  and  give  him  courage  for  the  fu 
ture.  He  had  a  right  to  claim  such  a  dole  of  her 
love,  and  once  the  knowledge  hers,  they  two  would 
stand,  banished  from  the  rest  of  the  world,  knit  to 
gether  by  the  bond  of  their  mutual  knowledge. 

The  temptation  clutched  him  and  his  breast  con 
tracted  in  the  rising  struggle.  His  pain  clamored 
for  relief,  his  weakness  for  support.  The  lion  man, 
broken  and  tamed  by  the  first  pure  passion  of  his 

465 


The  Emigrant  Trail 

life,  would  have  cast  the  weight  of  his  sin  upon  the 
girl  he  had  thought  to  bear  through  life  like  a  pam 
pered  mistress. 

With  the  words  on  his  lips  he  looked  at  her.  She 
met  the  look  with  a  smile  that  she  tried  to  make 
brave,  but  that  was  only  a  surface  grimace,  her  spir 
it's  disturbance  plain  beneath  it.  There  was  pathos 
in  its  courage  and  its  failure.  He  averted  his  eyes, 
shook  his  arm  free  of  her  hand,  and,  moving  toward 
the  water,  said : 

"  Go  back  to  the  tent  and  go  to  bed." 

"  What  are  you  going  to  do  ?  "  she  called  after 
him,  her  voice  sounding  plaintive.  Its  wistful  note 
gave  him  strength : 

"  Walk  for  a  while.  I'm  not  tired.  I'll  be  back 
in  an  hour,"  and  he  walked  away,  down  the  edge  of 
the  current,  past  the  pits  and  into  the  darkness. 

She  watched  him,  not  understanding,  vaguely 
alarmed,  then  turned  and  went  back  to  the  tent. 


466 


CHAPTER    III 

THE  stretch  of  the  river  where  the  McMurdos 
had  settled  was  richer  than  Courant's  location.  Had 
Glen  been  as  mighty  a  man  with  the  pick,  even  in 
the  short  season  left  to  him,  he  might  have  accumu 
lated  a  goodly  store.  But  he  was  a  slack  worker. 
His  training  as  a  carpenter  made  him  useful,  find 
ing  expression  in  an  improvement  on  Daddy  John's 
rocker,  so  they  overlooked  his  inclination  to  lie  off  in 
the  sun  with  his  ragged  hat  pulled  over  his  eyes. 
In  Courant's  camp  Bella  was  regarded  as  the  best 
man  of  the  two.  To  her  multiform  duties  she  added 
that  of  assistant  in  the  diggings,  squatting  beside 
her  husband  in  the  mud,  keeping  the  rocker  going, 
and  when  Glen  was  worked  out,  not  above  taking  a 
hand  at  the  shovel.  Her  camp  showed  a  comfort 
able  neatness,  and  the  children's  nakedness  was  cov 
ered  with  garments  fashioned  by  the  firelight  from 
old  flour  sacks. 

There  was  no  crisp  coming  of  autumn.  A  yel 
lowing  of  the  leafage  along  the  river's  edge  was  all 
that  denoted  the  season's  change.  Nature  seemed 
loth  to  lay  a  desecrating  hand  on  the  region's  tran 
quil  beauty.  They  had  been  told  at  the  Fort  that 
they  might  look  for  the  first  rains  in  November. 

467 


The  Emigrant  Trail 

When  October  was  upon  them  they  left  the  pits  and 
set  to  work  felling  trees  for  two  log  huts. 

Susan  saw  her  home  rising  on  the  knoll,  a  square 
of  logs,  log  roofed,  with  a  door  of  woven  saplings 
over  which  canvas  was  nailed.  They  built  a  chim 
ney  of  stones  rounded  by  the  water's  action,  and  for 
a  hearth  found  a  slab  of  granite  which  they  sunk  in 
the  earth  before  the  fireplace.  The  bunk  was  a 
frame  of  young  pines  with  canvas  stretched  across, 
and  cushioned  with  spruce  boughs  and  buffalo  robes. 
She  watched  as  they  nailed  up  shelves  of  small,  split 
trunks  and  sawed  the  larger  ones  into  sections  for 
seats.  The  bottom  of  the  wagon  came  out  and, 
poised  on  four  log  supports,  made  the  table. 

Her  housewife's  instincts  rose  jubilant  as  the  shell 
took  form,  and  she  sang  to  herself  as  she  stitched 
her  flour  sacks  together  for  towels.  No  princess 
decked  her  palace  with  a  blither  spirit.  All  the  little 
treasures  that  had  not  been  jettisoned  in  the  last 
stern  march  across  the  desert  came  from  their  hid 
ing  places  for  the  adornment  of  the  first  home  of 
her  married  life.  The  square  of  mirror  stood  on  the 
shelf  near  the  door  where  the  light  could  fall  on  it, 
and  the  French  gilt  clock  that  had  been  her  mother's 
ticked  beside  it.  The  men  laughed  as  she  set  out  on 
the  table  the  silver  mug  of  her  baby  days  and  a 
two-handled  tankard  bearing  on  its  side  a  worn 
coat  of  arms,  a  heritage  from  the  adventurous  Pou- 
trincourt,  a  drop  of  whose  blood  had  given  boldness 
and  courage  to  hers. 

It  was  her  home — very  different  from  the  home 
468 


The  Promised  Land 

she  had  dreamed  of — but  so  was  her  life  different 
from  the  life  she  and  her  father  had  planned  to 
gether  in  the  dead  days  of  the  trail.  She  delighted 
in  it,  gloated  over  it.  Long  before  the  day  of  in 
stallation  she  moved  in  her  primitive  furnishings, 
disposed  the  few  pans  with  an  eye  to  their  effect  as 
other  brides  arrange  their  silver  and  crystal,  hung 
her  flour-sack  towels  on  the  pegs  with  as  careful  a 
hand  as  though  they  had  been  tapestries,  and  folded 
her  clothes  neat  and  seemly  in  her  father's  chest. 
Then  came  a  night  when  the  air  was  sharp,  and  they 
kindled  the  first  fire  in  the  wide  chimney  mouth.  It 
leaped  exultant,  revealing  the  mud-filled  cracks, 
playing  on  the  pans,  and  licking  the  bosses  of  the 
old  tankard.  The  hearthstone  shone  red  with  its 
light,  and  they  sat  drawn  back  on  the  seats  of  pine 
looking  into  its  roaring  depths — housed,  sheltered, 
cozily  content.  When  Glen  and  Bella  retired  to 
their  tent  a  new  romance  seemed  to  have  budded  in 
the  girl's  heart.  It  was  her  bridal  night — beneath  a 
roof,  beside  a  hearth,  with  a  door  to  close  against 
the  world,  and  shut  her  away  with  her  lover. 

In  these  days  she  had  many  secret  conferrings 
with  Bella.  They  kept  their  heads  together  and 
whispered,  and  Bella  crooned  and  fussed  over  her 
and  pushed  the  men  into  the  background  in  a  mas 
terful,  aggressive  manner.  Susan  knew  now  what 
had  waked  the  nest-building  instinct.  The  knowl 
edge  came  with  a  thrilling,  frightened  joy.  She 
sat  apart  adjusting  herself  to  the  new  outlook, 
sometimes  fearful,  then  uplifted  in  a  rapt,  still  ela- 

469 


The  Emigrant  Trail 

tion.  All  the  charm  she  had  once  held  over  the 
hearts  of  men  was  gone.  Glen  told  Bella  she  was 
getting  stupid,  even  Daddy  John  wondered  at  her 
dull,  self-centered  air.  She  would  not  have  cared 
what  they  had  said  or  thought  of  her.  Her  interest 
in  men  as  creatures  to  snare  and  beguile  was  gone 
with  her  lost  maidenhood.  All  that  she  had  of 
charm  and  beauty  she  hoarded,  stored  up  and  jeal 
ously  guarded,  for  her  husband  and  her  child. 

"  It'll  be  best  for  you  to  go  down  to  the  town," 
Bella  had  said  to  her,  reveling  discreetly  in  her  po 
sition  as  high  priestess  of  these  mysteries,  "  there'll 
be  doctors  in  Sacramento,  some  kind  of  doctors." 

"  I'll  stay  here/'  Susan  answered.  "  You're  here 
and  my  husband  and  Daddy  John.  I'd  die  if  I  was 
sent  off  among  strangers.  I  can't  live  except  with 
the  people  I'm  fond  of.  I'm  not  afraid." 

And  the  older  woman  decided  that  maybe  she  was 
right.  She  could  see  enough  to  know  that  this  girl 
of  a  higher  stock  and  culture,  plucked  from  a  home 
of  sheltered  ease  to  be  cast  down  in  the  rude  life 
of  the  pioneer,  was  only  a  woman  like  all  the  rest, 
having  no  existence  outside  her  own  small  world. 
So  the  bright,  monotonous  days  filed  by,  always 
sunny,  always  warm,  till  it  seemed  as  if  they  were 
to  go  on  thus  forever,  glide  into  a  winter  which  was 
still  spring.  An  excursion  to  Sacramento,  a  big 
day's  clean  up,  were  their  excitements.  They  taught 
little  Bob  to  help  at  the  rocker,  and  the  women  sat 
by  the  cabin  door  sewing,  long  periods  of  silence 
broken  by  moments  of  desultory  talk.  Susan  had 

470 


The  Promised  Land 

grown  much  quieter.  She  would  sit  with  idle  hands 
watching  the  shifting  lights  and  the  remoter  hills 
turning  from  the  afternoon's  blue  to  the  rich  purple 
of  twilight.  Bella  said  she  was  lazy,  and  urged  in 
dustry  and  the  need  of  speed  in  the  preparation  of 
the  new  wardrobe.  She  laughed  indolently  and  said, 
time  enough  later  on.  She  had  grown  indifferent 
about  her  looks — her  hair  hanging  elfish  round  her 
ears,  her  blouse  unfastened  at  the  throat,  the  new 
boots  Low  had  brought  her  from  Sacramento  un 
worn  in  the  cabin  corner,  her  feet  clothed  in  the 
ragged  moccasins  he  had  taught  her  to  make. 

In  the  evening  she  sat  on  a  blanket  on  the  cabin 
floor,  blinking  sleepily  at  the  flames.  Internally  she 
brimmed  with  a  level  content.  Life  was  coming  to 
the  flood  with  her,  her  being  gathering  itself  for  its 
ultimate  expression.  All  the  curiosity  and  interest 
she  had  once  turned  out  to  the  multiple  forms  and 
claims  of  the  world  were  now  concentrated  on  the 
two  lives  between  which  hers  stood.  She  was  the 
primitive  woman,  a  mechanism  of  elemental  in 
stincts,  moving  up  an  incline  of  progressive  passions. 
The  love  of  her  father  had  filled  her  youth,  and  that 
had  given  way  to  the  love  of  her  mate,  which  in 
time  would  dim  before  the  love  of  her  child.  Out 
side  these  phases  of  a  governing  prepossession — 
filial,  conjugal,  maternal — she  knew  nothing,  felt 
nothing,  and  could  see  nothing. 

Low,  at  first,  had  brooded  over  her  with  an  almost 
ferocious  tenderness.  Had  she  demanded  a  removal 
to  the  town  he  would  have  given  way.  He  would 

471 


The  Emigrant  Trail 

have  acceded  to  anything  she  asked,  but  she  asked 
nothing.  As  the  time  passed  her  demands  of  him, 
even  to  his  help  in  small  matters  of  the  household, 
grew  less.  A  slight,  inscrutable  change  had  come 
over  her :  she  was  less  responsive,  often  held  him 
with  an  eye  whose  blankness  told  of  inner  imagin 
ings,  when  he  spoke  made  no  answer,  concentrated 
in  her  reverie.  When  he  watched  her  withdrawn  in 
these  dreams,  or  in  a  sudden  attack  of  industry, 
fashioning  small  garments  from  her  hoarded  store 
of  best  clothes,  he  felt  an  alienation  in  her,  and  he 
realized  with  a  start  of  alarmed  divination  that  the 
child  would  take  a  part  of  what  had  been  his,  steal 
from  him  something  of  that  blind  devotion  in  the 
eternal  possession  of  which  he  had  thought  to  find 
solace. 

It  was  a  shock  that  roused  him  to  a  scared  scru 
tiny  of  the  future.  He  put  questions  to  her  for  the 
purpose  of  drawing  out  her  ideas,  and  her  answers 
showed  that  all  her  thoughts  and  plans  were  gath 
ering  round  the  welfare  of  her  baby.  Her  desire  for 
its  good  was  to  end  her  unresisting  subservience  to 
him.  She  was  thinking  already  of  better  things. 
Ambitions  were  awakened  that  would  carry  her 
out  of  the  solitudes,  where  he  felt  himself  at  rest, 
back  to  the  world  where  she  would  struggle  to 
make  a  place  for  the  child  she  had  never  wanted 
for  herself. 

"  We'll  take  him  to  San  Francisco  soon  " — it  was 
always  "  him "  in  her  speculations — "  We  can't 
keep  him  here." 

472 


The  Promised  Land 

"  Why  not?  "  he  asked.  "  Look  at  Bella's  chil 
dren.  Could  anything  be  healthier  and  happier?" 

"  Bella's  children  are  different.  Bella's  different. 
She  doesn't  know  anything  better,  she  doesn't  care. 
To  have  them  well  fed  and  healthy  is  enough  for 
her.  We're  not  like  that.  Our  child's  going  to  have 
everything." 

'  You're  content  enough  here  by  yourself  and 
you're  a  different  sort  to  Bella." 

"  For  myself !  "  she  gave  a  shrug.  "  I  don't  care 
any  more  than  Bella  does.  But  for  my  child — my 
son — I  want  everything.  Want  him  a  gentleman 
like  his  ancestors,  French  and  American  " — she 
gave  his  arm  a  propitiating  squeeze  for  she  knew  he 
disliked  this  kind  of  talk — "  want  him  to  be  educated 
like  my  father,  and  know  everything,  and  have  a 
profession." 

"  You're  looking  far  ahead." 

"  Years  and  years  ahead,"  and  then  with  depre 
cating  eyes  and  irrepressible  laughter,  "  Now  don't 
say  I'm  foolish,  but  sometimes  I  think  of  him  get 
ting  married  and  the  kind  of  girl  I'll  choose  for  him 
— not  stupid  like  me,  but  one  who's  good  and  beau 
tiful  and  knows  all  about  literature  and  geography 
and  science.  The  finest  girl  in  the  world,  and  I'll 
find  her  for  him." 

He  didn't  laugh,  instead  he  looked  sulkily 
thoughtful : 

"  And  where  will  we  get  the  money  to  do  all 
this?" 

"  We'll   make  it.     We  have  a  good  deal   now. 

473 


The  Emigrant  Trail 

Daddy  John  told  me  the  other  day  he  thought  we 
had  nearly  ten  thousand  dollars  in  dust  beside  what 
my  father  left.  That  will  be  plenty  to  begin  on,  and 
you  can  go  into  business  down  on  the  coast.  They 
told  Daddy  John  at  the  Fort  there  would  be  hun 
dreds  and  thousands  of  people  coming  in  next  spring. 
They'll  build  towns,  make  Sacramento  and  San 
Francisco  big  places  with  lots  going  on.  We  can 
settle  in  whichever  seems  the  most  thriving  and  get 
back  into  the  kind  of  life  where  we  belong." 

It  was  her  old  song,  the  swan  song  of  his  hopes. 

He  felt  a  loneliness  more  bitter  than  he  had  ever 
before  conceived  of.  In  the  jarring  tumult  of  a 
growing  city  he  saw  himself  marked  in  his  own  eyes, 
aloof  in  the  street  and  the  market  place,  a  stranger 
by  his  own  fireside.  In  his  fear  he  swore  that  he 
would  thwart  her,  keep  her  in  the  wild  places,  crush 
her  maternal  ambitions  and  force  her  to  share  his 
chosen  life,  the  life  of  the  outcast.  He  knew  that 
it  would  mean  conflict,  the  subduing  of  a  woman 
nerved  by  a  mother's  passion.  And  as  he  worked 
in  the  ditches  he  thought  about  it,  arranging  the 
process  by  which  he  would  gradually  break  her  to 
his  will,  beat  down  her  aspirations  till  she  was  re 
duced  to  the  abject  docility  of  a  squaw.  Then  he 
would  hold  her  forever  under  his  hand  and  eye, 
broken  as  a  dog  to  his  word,  content  to  wander  with 
him  on  those  lonely  paths  where  he  would  tread  out 
the  measure  of  his  days. 

Toward  the  end  of  November  the  rains  came. 
First  in  hesitant  showers,  then  in  steadier  down- 

474 


The  Promised  Land 

pourings,  finally,  as  December  advanced,  in  torren 
tial  fury.  Veils  of  water  descended  upon  them, 
swept  round  their  knoll  till  it  stood  marooned  amid 
yellow  eddies.  The  river  rose  boisterous,  swirled 
into  the  pits,  ate  its  way  across  the  honey-combed 
reach  of  mud  and  fingered  along  the  bottom  of  their 
hillock.  They  had  never  seen  such  rain.  The  pines 
bowed  and  wailed  under  its  assault,  and  the  slopes 
were  musical  with  the  voices  of  liberated  streams. 
Moss  and  mud  had  to  be  pressed  into  the  cabin's 
cracks,  and  when  they  sat  by  the  fire  in  the  evening 
their  voices  fell  before  the  angry  lashings  on  the 
roof  and  the  groaning  of  the  tormented  forest. 

Daddy  John  and  Courant  tried  to  work  but  gave 
it  up,  and  the  younger  man,  harassed  by  the  seces 
sion  of  the  toil  that  kept  his  body  wearied  and  gave 
him  sleep,  went  abroad  on  the  hills,  roaming  free 
in  the  dripping  darkness.  Bella  saw  cause  for  sur 
prise  that  he  should  absent  himself  willingly  from 
their  company.  She  grumbled  about  it  to  Glen,  and 
noted  Susan's  acquiescence  with  the  amaze  of  the 
woman  who  holds  absolute  sway  over  her  man.  One 
night  Courant  came  back,  drenched  and  staggering, 
on  his  shoulders  a  small  bear  that  he  had  shot  on 
the  heights  above.  The  fresh  bear  meat  placated 
Bella,  but  she  shook  her  head  over  the  mountain 
man's  morose  caprices,  and  in  the  bedtime  hour 
made  dismal  prophecies  as  to  the  outcome  of  her 
friend's  strange  marriage. 

The  bear  hunt  had  evil  consequences  that  she  did 
not  foresee.  It  left  Courant,  the  iron  man,  stricken 

475 


The  Emigrant  Trail 

by  an  ailment  marked  by  shiverings,  when  he  sat 
crouched  over  the  fire,  and  fevered  burnings  when 
their  combined  entreaties  could  not  keep  him  from 
the  open  door  and  the  cool,  wet  air.  When  the 
clouds  broke  and  the  landscape  emerged  from  its 
mourning,  dappled  with  transparent  tints,  every  twig 
and  leaf  washed  clean,  his  malady  grew  worse  and 
he  lay  on  the  bed  of  spruce  boughs  tossing  in  a  sick 
ness  none  of  them  understood. 

They  were  uneasy,  came  in  and  out  with  disturbed 
looks  and  murmured  inquiries.  He  refused  to  an 
swer  them,  but  on  one  splendid  morning,  blaring 
life  like  a  trumpet  call,  he  told  them  he  was  better 
and  was  going  back  to  work.  He  got  down  to  the 
river  bank,  fumbled  over  his  spade,  and  then  Daddy 
John  had  to  help  him  back  to  the  cabin.  With  gray 
face  and  filmed  eyes  he  lay  on  the  bunk  while  they 
stood  round  him,  and  the  children  came  peeping 
fearfully  through  the  doorway.  They  were  thor 
oughly  frightened,  Bella  standing  by  with  her  chin 
caught  in  her  hand  and  her  eyes  fastened  on  him, 
and  Susan  on  the  ground  beside  him,  trying  to  say 
heartening  phrases  with  lips  that  were  stiff.  The 
men  did  not  know  what  to  do.  They  pushed  the 
children  from  the  door  roughly,  as  if  it  were  their 
desire  to  hurt  and  abuse  them.  In  some  obscure 
way  it  seemed  to  relieve  their  feelings. 

The  rains  came  back  more  heavily  than  ever.  For 
three  days  the  heavens  descended  in  a  downpour 
that  made  the  river  a  roaring  torrent  and  isled  the 
two  log  houses  on  their  hillocks.  The  walls  of  the 

476 


The  Promised  Land 

cabin  trickled  with  water.  The  buffets  of  the  wind 
ripped  the  canvas  covering  from  the  door,  and  Su 
san  and  Daddy  John  had  to  take  a  buffalo  robe  from 
the  bed  and  nail  it  over  the  rent.  They  kept  the 
place  warm  with  the  fire,  but  the  earth  floor  was 
damp  to  their  feet,  and  the  tinkle  of  drops  falling 
from  the  roof  into  the  standing  pans  came  clear 
through  the  outside  tumult. 

The  night  when  the  storm  was  at  its  fiercest  the 
girl  begged  the  old  man  to  stay  with  her.  Courant 
had  fallen  into  a  state  of  lethargy  from  which  it 
was  hard  to  rouse  him.  Her  anxiety  gave  place  to 
anguish,  and  Daddy  John  was  ready  for  the  worst 
when  she  shook  him  into  wakefulness,  her  voice  at 
his  ear: 

"  You  must  go  somewhere  and  get  a  doctor.  I'm 
afraid." 

He  blinked  at  her  without  answering,  wondering 
where  he  could  find  a  doctor  and  not  wanting  to 
speak  till  he  had  a  hope  to  offer.  She  read  his 
thoughts  and  cried  as  she  snatched  his  hat  and  coat 
from  a  peg: 

"  There  must  be  one  somewhere.  Go  to  the  Fort, 
and  if  there's  none  there  go  to  Sacramento.  I'd  go 
with  you  but  I'm  afraid  to  leave  him." 

Daddy  John  went.  She  stood  in  the  doorway  and 
saw  him  lead  the  horse  from  the  brush  shed  and, 
with  his  head  low  against  the  downpour,  vault  into 
the  saddle.  The  moaning  of  the  disturbed  trees 
mingled  with  the  triumphant  roar  of  the  river. 
There  was  a  shouted  good-by,  and  she  heard  the  clat- 

477 


The  Emigrant  Trail 

ter  of  the  hoofs  for  a  moment  sharp  and  distinct, 
then  swallowed  in  the  storm's  high  clamor. 

In  three  days  he  was  back  with  a  ship's  doctor, 
an  Englishman,  who  described  himself  as  just  ar 
rived  from  Australia.  Daddy  John  had  searched  the 
valley,  and  finally  run  his  quarry  to  earth  at  the  Por 
ter  Ranch,  one  of  a  motley  crew  waiting  to  swarm 
inland  to  the  rivers.  The  man,  a  ruddy  animal  with 
some  rudimentary  knowledge  of  his  profession, 
pronounced  the  ailment  "  mountain  fever."  He 
looked  over  the  doctor's  medicine  chest  with  an 
air  of  wisdom  and  at  Susan  with  subdued  gal 
lantry. 

"  Better  get  the  wife  down  to  Sacramento,"  he 
said  to  Daddy  John.  "  The  man's  not  going  to  last 
and  you  can't  keep  her  up  here." 

"  Is  he  going  to  die  ?  "  said  the  old  man. 

The  doctor  pursed  his  lips. 

"He  oughtn't  to.  He's  a  Hercules.  But  the 
strongest  of  'em  go  this  way  with  the  work  and  ex 
posure.  Think  they  can  do  anything  and  don't  last 
as  well  sometimes  as  the  weak  ones." 

"  Work  and  exposure  oughtn't  to  hurt  him.  He's 
bred  upon  it.  Why  should  he  cave  in  and  the  others 
of  us  keep  up?  " 

"  Can't  say.  But  he's  all  burned  out — hollow. 
There's  no  rebound.  He's  half  gone  now.  Doesn't 
seem  to  have  the  spirit  that  you'd  expect  in  such  a 
body." 

"  Would  it  do  any  good  to  get  him  out  of  here, 
down  to  the  valley  or  the  coast?  " 

478 


The  Promised  Land 

"  It  might — change  of  air  sometimes  knocks  out 
these  fevers.  You  could  try  the  coast  or  Hock 
Farm.  But  if  you  want  my  opinion  I  don't  think 
there's  much  use." 

Then  on  the  first  fine  day  the  doctor  rode  away 
with  some  of  their  dust  in  his  saddlebags,  spying  on 
the  foaming  river  for  good  spots  to  locate  when  the 
rains  should  cease  and  he,  with  the  rest  of  the  world, 
could  try  his  luck. 

His  visit  had  done  no  good,  had  given  no  heart 
to  the  anguished  woman  or  roused  no  flicker  of  life 
in  the  failing  man.  Through  the  weakness  of  his 
wasting  faculties  Courant  realized  the  approach  of 
death  and  welcomed  it.  In  his  forest  roamings,  be 
fore  his  illness  struck  him,  he  had  thought  of  it  as 
the  one  way  out.  Then  it  had  come  to  him  vaguely 
terrible  as  a  specter  in  dreams.  Now  bereft  of  the 
sustaining  power  of  his  strength  the  burden  of  the 
days  to  come  had  grown  insupportable.  To  live 
without  telling  her,  to  live  beside  her  and  remain  a 
partial  stranger,  to  live  divorcing  her  from  all  she 
would  desire,  had  been  the  only  course  he  saw,  and 
in  it  he  recognized  nothing  but  misery.  Death  was 
the  solution  for  both,  and  he  relinquished  himself 
to  it  with  less  grief  at  parting  from  her  than  relief 
at  the  withdrawal  from  an  existence  that  would  de 
stroy  their  mutual  dream.  What  remained  to  him 
of  his  mighty  forces  went  to  keep  his  lips  shut  on 
the  secret  she  must  never  know.  Even  as  his  brain 
grew  clouded,  and  his  senses  feeble,  he  retained  the 
resolution  to  leave  her  her  belief  in  him.  This  would 

479 


The  Emigrant  Trail 

be  his  legacy.     His  last  gift  of  love  would  be  the 
memory  of  an  undimmed  happiness. 

But  Susan,  unknowing,  fought  on.  The  doctor 
had  not  got  back  to  the  Porter  Ranch  before  she  be 
gan  arranging  to  move  Low  to  Sacramento  and 
from  there  to  the  Coast.  He  would  get  better  care, 
they  would  find  more  competent  doctors,  the  change 
of  air  would  strengthen  him.  She  had  it  out  with 
Bella,  refusing  to  listen  to  the  older  woman's  objec 
tions,  pushing  aside  all  references  to  her  own  health. 
Bella  was  distracted.  "  For/'  as  she  said  afterwards 
to  Glen,  "  what's  the  sense  of  having  her  go  ?  She 
can't  do  anything  for  him,  and  it's  like  as  not  the 
three  of  them'll  die  instead  of  one." 

There  was  no  reasoning  with  Susan.  The  old  will 
fulness  was  strengthened  to  a  blind  determination. 
She  plodded  back  through  the  rain  to  Daddy  John 
and  laid  the  matter  before  him.  As  of  old  he  did 
not  dispute  with  her,  only  stipulated  that  he  be  per 
mitted  to  go  on  ahead,  make  arrangements,  and  then 
come  back  for  her.  He,  too,  felt  there  was  no  hope,  but 
unlike  the  others  he  felt  the  best  hope  for  his  Missy 
was  in  letting  her  do  all  she  could  for  her  husband. 

In  the  evening,  sitting  by  the  fire,  they  talked  it 
over — the  stage  down  the  river,  the  stop  at  the  Fort, 
then  on  to  Sacramento,  and  the  long  journey  to  the 
seaport  settlement  of  San  Francisco.  The  sick  man 
seemed  asleep,  and  their  voices  unconsciously  rose, 
suddenly  dropping  to  silence  as  he  stirred  and  spoke : 

"  Are  you  talking  of  moving  me  ?  Don't.  I've 
had  twelve  years  of  it.  Let  me  rest  now." 

480 


The  Promised  Land 

Susar.  went  to  him  and  sat  at  his  feet. 

"  But  we  must  get  you  well/'  she  said,  trying  to 
smile.  l  They'll  want  you  in  the  pits.  You  must 
be  back  there  working  with  them  by  the  spring." 

He  looked  at  her  with  a  wide,  cold  gaze,  and 
said : 

1  The  spring.  We're  all  waiting  for  the  spring. 
Everything's  going  to  happen  then." 

A  silence  fell.  The  wife  sat  with  drooped  head, 
unable  to  speak.  Daddy  John  looked  into  the  fire. 
To  them  both  the  Angel  of  Death  seemed  to  have 
paused  outside  the  door,  and  in  the  stillness  they 
waited  for  his  knock.  Only  Courant  was  indiffer 
ent,  staring  at  the  wall  with  eyes  full  of  an  unfath 
omable  unconcern. 

The  next  day  Daddy  John  left.  He  was  to  find 
the  accommodations,  get  together  such  comforts  as 
could  be  had,  and  return  for  them.  He  took  a  sack 
of  dust  and  the  fleetest  horse,  and  calculated  to  be 
back  inside  two  days.  As  he  clattered  away  he 
turned  for  a  last  look  at  her,  standing  in  the  sun 
shine,  her  hand  over  her  eyes.  Man  or  devil  would 
not  stop  him,  he  thought,  as  he  buckled  to  his  task, 
and  his  seventy  years  sat  as  light  as  a  boy's  twenty, 
the  one  passion  of  his  heart  beating  life  through 
him. 

Two  days  later,  at  sundown,  he  came  back.  She 
heard  the  ringing  of  hoofs  along  the  trail  and  ran 
forward  to  meet  him,  catching  the  bridle  as  the 
horse,  a  white  lather  of  sweat,  came  to  a  panting 
halt.  She  did  not  notice  the  lined  exhaustion  of  the 

481 


The  Emigrant  Trail 

old  man's  face,  had  no  care  for  anything  but  his 
news. 

"  I've  got  everything  fixed,"  he  cried,  and  then  slid 
off  holding  to  the  saddle  for  he  was  stiff  and  spent. 
"  The  place  is  ready  and  I've  found  a  doctor  and  got 
him  nailed.  It'll  be  all  clean  and  shipshape  for  you. 
How's  Low?" 

An  answer  was  unnecessary.  He  could  see  there 
were  no  good  tidings. 

"  Weaker  a  little,"  she  said.  "  But  if  it's  fine  we 
can  start  to-morrow." 

He  thought  of  the  road  he  had  traveled  and  felt 
they  were  in  God's  hands.  Then  he  stretched  a 
gnarled  and  tremulous  claw  and  laid  it  on  her 
shoulder. 

"  And  there's  other  news,  Missy.  Great  news. 
I'm  thinking  that  it  may  help  you." 

There  was  no  news  that  could  help  her  but  news 
of  Low.  She  was  so  fixed  in  her  preoccupation 
that  her  eye  was  void  of  interest,  as  his,  bright  and 
expectant,  held  it: 

"  I  seen  David." 

He  was  rewarded.  Her  face  flashed  into  excite 
ment  and  she  grabbed  at  him  with  a  wild  hand: 

"David!    Where?" 

"  In  Sacramento.    I  seen  him  and  talked  to  him." 

"  Oh,  Daddy  John,  how  wonderful !  Was  he 
well?" 

"  Well  and  hearty,  same  as  he  used  to  be. 
Plumped  up  considerable." 

"  How  had  he  got  there?  " 
482 


The  Promised  Land 

"  A  train  behind  us  picked  him  up,  found  him  ly- 
in'  by  the  spring  where  he'd  crawled  lookin'  for  us." 

"  Then,  it  wasn't  Indians?    Had  he  got  lost?  " 

"  That's  what  I  says  to  him  first-off— '  Well,  gol 
darn  yer,  what  happened  to  yer  ?  '  and  before  he  an 
swers  me  he  says  quick,  '  How's  Susan?  '  It  ain't 
no  use  settin'  on  bad  news  that's  bound  to  come  out 
so  I  give  it  to  him  straight  that  you  and  Low  was 
married  at  Humboldt.  And  he  took  it  very  quiet, 
whitened  up  a  bit,  and  says  no  words  for  a  spell, 
walkin'  off  a  few  steps.  Then  he  turns  back  and 
says,  '  Is  she  happy  ?  ' 

Memory  broke  through  the  shell  of  absorption 
and  gave  voice  to  a  forgotten  sense  of  guilt : 

"Oh,  poor  David!  He  always  thought  of  me 
first." 

"  I  told  him  you  was.  That  you  and  Low  was 
almighty  sot  on  each  other  and  that  Low  was  sick. 
And  he  was  quiet  for  another  spell,  and  I  could  see 
his  thoughts  was  troublesome.  So  to  get  his  mind 
off  it  I  asked  him  how  it  all  happened.  He  didn't 
answer  for  a  bit,  standin'  thinkin'  with  his  eyes  look- 
in'  out  same  as  he  used  to  look  at  the  sunsets  be 
fore  he  got  broke  down.  And  then  he  tells  me  it 
was  a  fall,  that  he  clum  up  to  the  top  of  the  rock 
and  thinks  he  got  a  touch  o'  sun  up  there.  For 
first  thing  he  knew  he  was  all  dizzy  and  staggerin' 
round,  goin'  this  side  and  that,  till  he  got  to  the 
edge  where  the  rock  broke  off  and  over  he  went. 
He  come  to  himself  lying  under  a  ledge  alongside 
some  bushes,  with  a  spring  tricklin'  over  him.  He 

483 


The  Emigrant  Trail 

guessed  he  rolled  there  and  that's  why  we  couldn't 
find  him.  He  don't  know  how  long  it  was,  or  how 
long  it  took  him  to  crawl  round  to  the  camp — may 
be  a  day,  he  thinks,  for  he  was  'bout  two  thirds  dead. 
But  he  got  there  and  saw  we  was  gone.  The  In 
dians  hadn't  come  down  on  the  place,  and  he  seen 
the  writing  on  the  rock  and  found  the  cache.  The 
food  and  the  water  kep'  him  alive,  and  after  a  bit  a 
big  train  come  along,  the  finest  train  he  even  seen — 
eighteen  wagons  and  an  old  Ashley  man  for  pilot. 
They  was  almighty  good  to  him ;  the  women  nursed 
him  like  Christians,  and  he  rid  in  the  wagons  and 
come  back  slow  to  his  strength.  The  reason  we 
didn't  hear  of  him  before  was  because  they  come  by 
a  southern  route  that  took  'em  weeks  longer,  mov 
ing  slow  for  the  cattle.  They  was  fine  people,  he 
says,  and  he's  thick  with  one  of  the  men  who's  a 
lawyer,  and  him  and  David's  goin'  to  the  coast  to 
set  up  a  law  business  there." 

The  flicker  of  outside  interest  was  dying. 
"  Thank  Heaven,"  she  said  on  a  rising  breath,  then 
cast  a  look  at  the  cabin  and  added  quickly: 

"  I'll  go  and  tell  Low.  Maybe  it'll  cheer  him  up. 
He  was  always  so  worried  about  David.  You  tell 
Bella  and  then  come  to  the  cabin  and  see  how  you 
think  he  is." 

There  was  light  in  the  cabin,  a  leaping  radiance 
from  the  logs  on  the  hearth,  and  a  thin,  pale  twi 
light  from  the  uncovered  doorway.  She  paused 
there  for  a  moment,  making  her  step  light  and  com 
posing  her  features  into  serener  lines.  The  gaunt 

484 


The  Promised  Land 

form  under  the  blanket  was  motionless.  The  face, 
sunk  away  to  skin  clinging  on  sharp-set  bones,  was 
turned  in  profile.  He  might  have  been  sleeping  but 
for  the  glint  of  light  between  the  eyelids.  She  was 
accustomed  to  seeing  him  thus,  to  sitting  beside  the 
inanimate  shape,  her  hand  curled  round  his,  her 
eyes  on  the  face  that  took  no  note  of  her  impas 
sioned  scrutiny.  Would  her  tidings  of  David  rouse 
him  ?  She  left  herself  no  time  to  wonder,  hungrily 
expectant. 

"  Low,"  she  said,  bending  over  him,  "  Daddy 
John's  been  to  Sacramento  and  has  brought  back 
wonderful  news." 

He  turned  his  head  with  an  effort  and  looked  at 
her.  His  glance  was  vacant  as  if  he  had  only  half 
heard,  as  if  her  words  had  caught  the  outer  edges 
of  his  senses  and  penetrated  no  farther. 

"  He  has  seen  David." 

Into  the  dull  eyes  a  slow  light  dawned,  struggling 
through  their  apathy  till  they  became  the  eyes  of  a 
live  man,  hanging  on  hers,  charged  with  a  staring 
intelligence.  He  made  an  attempt  to  move,  lifted  a 
wavering  hand  and  groped  for  her  shoulder. 

"  David !  "  he  whispered. 

The  news  had  touched  an  inner  nerve  that  thrilled 
to  it.  She  crouched  on  the  edge  of  the  bunk,  her 
heart  beating  thickly : 

"  David,  alive  and  well." 

The  fumbling  hand  gripped  on  her  shoulder. 
She  felt  the  fingers  pressing  in  stronger  than  she 
had  dreamed  they  could  be.  It  pulled  her  down 

485 


The  Emigrant  Trail 

toward  him,  the  eyes  fixed  on  hers,  searching  her 
face,  glaring  fearfully  from  blackened  hollows,  riv 
eted  in  a  desperate  questioning. 

"  What  happened  to  him  ?  "  came  the  husky  whis 
per. 

"  He  fell  from  the  rock ;  thinks  he  had  a  sunstroke 
up  there  and  then  lost  his  balance  and  fell  over  and 
rolled  under  a  ledge.  And  after  a  few  days  a  train 
came  by  and  found  him." 

"Is  that  what  he  said  ?" 

Her  answering  voice  began  to  tremble,  for  the 
animation  of  his  look  grew  wilder  and  stranger.  It 
was  as  if  all  the  life  in  his  body  was  burning  in  those 
hungry  eyes.  The  hand  on  her  shoulder  clutched 
like  a  talon,  the  muscles  informed  with  an  unnatural 
force.  Was  it  the  end  coming  with  a  last  influx  of 
strength  and  fire?  Her  tears  began  to  fall  upon 
his  face,  and  she  saw  it  through  them,  ravaged  and 
fearful,  with  new  life  struggling  under  the  ghastli- 
ness  of  dissolution.  There  was  an  awfulness  in  this 
rekindling  of  the  spirit  where  death  had  set  its  stamp 
that  broke  her  fortitude,  and  she  forgot  the  legend 
of  her  courage  and  cried  in  her  agony: 

"  Oh,  Low,  don't  die,  don't  die !  I  can't  bear  it. 
Stay  with  me !  " 

The  hand  left  her  shoulder  and  fumblingly 
touched  her  face,  feeling  blindly  over  its  tear-washed 
surface. 

"  I'm  not  going  to  die,"  came  the  feeble  whisper. 
"  I  can  live  now." 

Half  an  hour  later  when  Daddy  John  came  in  he 
486 


The  Promised  Land 

found  her  sitting  on  the  side  of  the  bunk,  a  hunched, 
dim  figure  against  the  firelight.  She  held  up  a 
warning  hand,  and  the  old  man  tiptoed  to  her  side 
and  leaned  over  her  to  look.  Courant  was  sleeping, 
his  head  thrown  back,  his  chest  rising  in  even 
breaths.  Daddy  John  gazed  for  a  moment,  then  bent 
till  his  cheek  was  almost  against  hers. 

"  Pick   up   your   heart,    Missy,"    he    whispered. 
"  He  looks  to  me  better." 


487 


CHAPTER    IV 

FROM  the  day  of  the  good  news  Courant  rallied. 
At  first  they  hardly  dared  to  hope.  Bella  and  Daddy 
John  talked  about  it  together  and  wondered  if  it 
were  only  a  pause  in  the  progress  of  his  ailment. 
But  Susan  was  confident,  nursing  her  man  with  a 
high  cheerfulness  that  defied  their  anxious  faces. 

She  had  none  of  their  fear  of  believing.  She  saw 
their  doubts  and  angrily  scouted  them.  "  Low  will 
be  all  right  soon,"  she  said,  in  answer  to  their 
gloomily  observing  looks.  In  her  heart  she  called 
them  cowards,  ready  to  join  hands  with  death,  not 
rise  up  and  fight  till  the  final  breath.  Her  resolute 
hope  seemed  to  fill  the  cabin  with  light  and  life.  It 
transformed  her  haggardness,  made  her  a  beaming 
presence,  with  eyes  bright  under  tangled  locks  of 
hair,  and  lips  that  hummed  snatches  of  song.  He 
was  coming  back  to  her  like  a  child  staggering  to 
its  mother's  outheld  hands.  While  they  were  yet 
unconvinced  '*  when  Low  gets  well  "  became  a  con 
stant  phrase  on  her  tongue.  She  began  to  plan 
again,  filled  their  ears  with  speculations  of  the  time 
when  she  and  her  husband  would  move  to  the  coast. 
They  marveled  at  her,  at  the  dauntlessness  of  her 
spirit,  at  the  desperate  courage  that  made  her  grip 
her  happiness  and  wrench  it  back  from  the  enemy. 

488 


The  Promised  Land 

They  marveled  more  when  they  saw  she  had  been 
right — Susan  who  had  been  a  child  so  short  a  time 
before,  knowing  more  than  they,  wiser  and  stronger 
in  the  wisdom  and  strength  of  her  love. 

There  was  a  great  day  when  Low  crept  out  to 
the  door  and  sat  on  the  bench  in  the  sun  with  his 
wife  beside  him.  To  the  prosperous  passerby  they 
would  have  seemed  a  sorry  pair — a  skeleton  man 
with  uncertain  feet  and  powerless  hands,  a  worn 
woman,  ragged  and  unkempt.  To  them  it  was  the 
halcyon  hour,  the  highest  point  of  their  mutual  ad 
venture.  The  cabin  was  their  palace,  the  soaked 
prospect  a  pleasance  decked  for  their  delight.  And 
from  this  rude  and  ravaged  outlook  their  minds 
reached  forward  in  undefined  and  unrestricted 
visioning  to  all  the  world  that  lay  before  them, 
which  they  would  soon  advance  on  and  together 
win. 

Nature  was  with  them  in  their  growing  gladness. 
The  spring  was  coming.  The  river  began  to  fall, 
and  Courant's  eyes  dwelt  longingly  on  the  expand 
ing  line  of  mud  that  waited  for  his  pick.  April  came 
with  a  procession  of  cloudless  days,  with  the  tin 
kling  of  streams  shrinking  under  the  triumphant 
sun,  with  the  pines  exhaling  scented  breaths,  and  a 
first,  faint  sprouting  of  new  green.  The  great  re 
freshed  landscape  unveiled  itself,  serenely  brooding 
in  a  vast,  internal  energy  of  germination.  The  earth 
was  coming  to  life  as  they  were,  gathering  itself 
for  the  expression  of  its  ultimate  purpose.  It  was 
rising  to  the  rite  of  rebirth  and  they  rose  with  it, 


The  Emigrant  Trail 

with  faces  uplifted  to  its  kindling  glory  and  hearts 
in  which  joy  was  touched  by  awe. 

On  a  May  evening,  when  the  shadows  were  con 
gregating  in  the  canon,  Susan  lay  on  the  bunk  with 
her  son  in  the  hollow  of  her  arm.  The  children 
came  in  and  peeped  fearfully  at  the  little  hairless 
head,  pulling  down  the  coverings  with  careful  fin 
gers  and  eying  the  newcomer  dubiously,  not  sure 
that  they  liked  him.  Bella  looked  over  their  shoul 
ders  radiating  proud  content.  Then  she  shooed 
them  out  and  went  about  her  work  of  "  redding 
up,"  pacing  the  earthen  floor  with  the  proud  tread 
of  victory.  Courant  was  sitting  outside  on  the  log 
bench.  She  moved  to  the  door  and  smiled  down  at 
him  over  the  tin  plate  she  was  scouring. 

"  Come  in  and  sit  with  her  while  I  get  the  sup 
per/'  she  said.  "  Don't  talk,  just  sit  where  she  can 
see  you." 

He  came  and  sat  beside  her,  and  she  drew  the 
blanket  down  from  the  tiny,  crumpled  face.  They 
were  silent,  wondering  at  it,  looking  back  over  the 
time  when  it  had  cried  in  their  blood,  inexorably 
drawn  them  together,  till  out  of  the  heat  of  their 
passion  the  spark  of  its  being  had  been  struck. 
Both  saw  in  it  their  excuse  and  their  pardon. 

She  recovered  rapidly,  all  her  being  revivified  and 
reinforced,  coming  back  glowingly  to  a  maturer 
beauty.  Glimpses  of  the  Susan  of  old  began  to  re 
appear.  She  wanted  her  looking-glass,  and,  sitting 
up  in  the  bunk  with  the  baby  against  her  side,  ar 
ranged  her  hair  in  the  becoming  knot  and  twisted 

49° 


The  Promised  Land 

the  locks  on  her  temples  into  artful  tendrils.  She 
would  sew  soon,  and  kept  Bella  busy  digging  into 
the  trunks  and  bringing  out  what  was  left  of  her 
best  things.  They  held  weighty  conferences  over 
these,  the  foot  of  the  bunk  littered  with  wrinkled 
skirts  and  jackets  that  had  fitted  a  slimmer  and  more 
elegant  Susan.  A  trip  to  Sacramento  was  talked  of, 
in  which  Daddy  John  was  to  shop  for  a  lady  and 
baby,  and  buy  all  manner  of  strange  articles  of 
which  he  knew  nothing. 

"  Calico,  that's  a  pretty  color/'  he  exclaimed  tes 
tily.  "  How  am  I  to  know  what's  a  pretty  color  ? 
Now  if  it  was  a  sack  of  flour  or  a  spade — but  I'll 
do  my  best,  Missy,"  he  added  meekly,  catching  her 
eye  in  which  the  familiar  imperiousness  gleamed 
through  softening  laughter. 

Soon  the  day  came  when  she  walked  to  the  door 
and  sat  on  the  bench.  The  river  was  settling  de 
corously  into  its  bed,  and  in  the  sunlight  the 
drenched  shores  shone  under  a  tracery  of  pools  and 
rillets  as  though  a  silvery  gauze  had  been  rudely 
torn  back  from  them,  catching  and  tearing  here  and 
there.  The  men  were  starting  the  spring  work.  The 
rocker  was  up,  and  the  spades  and  picks  stood 
propped  against  the  rock  upon  which  she  and  Low 
had  sat  on  that  first  evening.  He  sat  there  now, 
watching  the  preparations  soon  to  take  part  again. 
His  lean  hand  fingered  among  the  picks,  found  his 
own,  and  he  walked  to  the  untouched  shore  and 
struck  a  tentative  blow.  Then  he  dropped  the  pick, 
laughing,  and  came  back  to  her. 

491 


The  Emigrant  Trail 

"  I'll  be  at  it  in  a  week,"  he  said,  sitting  down  on 
the  bench.  "  It'll  be  good  to  be  in  the  pits  again 
and  feel  my  muscles  once  more." 

"  It'll  be  good  to  see  you,"  she  answered. 

In  a  week  he  was  back,  in  two  weeks  he  was 
himself  again — the  mightiest  of  those  mighty  men 
who,  sixty  years  ago,  measured  their  strength  along 
the  American  River.  The  diggings  ran  farther  up 
stream  and  were  richer  than  the  old  ones.  The 
day's  takings  were  large,  sometimes  so  large  that 
the  men's  elation  beat  like  a  fever  in  their  blood.  At 
night  they  figured  on  their  wealth,  and  Susan  lis 
tened  startled  to  the  sums  that  fell  so  readily  from 
their  lips.  They  were  rich,  rich  enough  to  go  to  the 
coast  and  for  Courant  to  start  in  business  there. 

It  was  he  who  wanted  this.  The  old  shrinking 
and  fear  of  the  city  were  gone.  Now,  with  a  wife 
and  child,  he  turned  his  face  that  way.  He  was 
longing  to  enter  the  fight  for  them,  to  create  and 
acquire  for  them,  to  set  them  as  high  as  the  labor  of 
his  hands  and  work  of  his  brain  could  compass. 
New  ambitions  possessed  him.  As  Susan  planned 
for  a  home  and  its  comforts,  he  did  for  his  work  in 
the  market  place  in  competition  with  those  who  had 
once  been  his  silent  accusers. 

But  there  was  also  a  strange  humbleness  in  him. 
It  did  not  weaken  his  confidence  or  clog  his  aspira 
tion,  but  it  took  something  from  the  hard  arrogance 
that  had  recognized  in  his  own  will  the  only  law. 
He  had  heard  from  Daddy  John  of  that  interview 
with  David,  and  he  knew  the  reason  of  David's  lie. 

492 


The  Promised  Land 

He  knew,  too,  that  David  would  stand  to  that  lie 
forever.  Of  the  two  great  passions  that  the  woman 
had  inspired  the  one  she  had  relinquished  was  the 
finer.  He  had  stolen  her  from  David,  and  David 
had  shown  that  for  love  of  her  he  could  forego  ven 
geance.  Once  such  an  act  would  have  been  inexplic 
able  to  the  mountain  man.  Now  he  understood,  and 
in  his  humility  he  vowed  to  make  the  life  she  had 
chosen  as  perfect  as  the  one  that  might  have  been. 
Through  this  last,  and  to  him,  supremest  sacrifice, 
David  ceased  to  be  the  puny  weakling  and  became 
the  hero,  the  thought  of  whom  would  make  Courant 
"  go  softly  all  his  days." 

The  summer  marched  upon  them,  with  the  men 
doing  giant  labor  on  the  banks  and  the  women 
under  the  pine  at  work  beside  their  children.  The 
peace  of  the  valley  was  broken  by  the  influx  of  the 
Forty-niners,  who  stormed  its  solitudes,  and  changed 
the  broken  trail  to  a  crowded  highway  echoing  with 
the  noises  of  life.  The  river  yielded  up  its  treasure 
to  their  eager  hands,  fortunes  were  made,  and 
friendships  begun  that  were  to  make  the  history  of 
the  new  state.  These  bronzed  and  bearded  men, 
these  strong-thewed  women,  were  waking  from  her 
sleep  the  virgin  California. 

Sometimes  in  the  crowded  hours  Susan  dropped 
her  work  and,  with  her  baby  in  her  arms,  walked 
along  the  teeming  river  trail  or  back  into  the  shad 
ows  of  the  forest,  All  about  her  was  the  stir  of  a 
fecund  earth,  growth,  expansion,  promise.  From 
beneath  the  pines  she  looked  up  and  saw  the  as- 

493 


The  Emigrant  Trail 

piration  of  their  proud  up-springing.  At  her  feet 
the  ground  was  bright  with  flower  faces  complet 
ing  themselves  in  the  sunshine.  Wherever  her 
glance  fell  there  was  a  busyness  of  development,  a 
progression  toward  fulfillment,  a  combined,  har 
monious  striving  in  which  each  separate  particle  had 
its  purpose  and  its  meaning.  The  shell  of  her  old 
self-engrossment  cracked,  and  the  call  of  a  wider 
life  came  to  her.  It  pierced  clear  and  arresting 
through  the  fairy  flutings  of  "  the  horns  of  elfland  " 
that  were  all  she  had  heretofore  heard. 

The  desire  to  live  as  an  experiment  in  happiness, 
to  extract  from  life  all  there  was  for  her  own  en 
joying,  left  her.  Slowly  she  began  to  see  it  as  a 
vast  concerted  enterprise  in  which  she  was  called 
to  play  her  part.  The  days  when  th£  world  was 
made  for  her  pleasure  were  over.  The  days  had  be 
gun  when  she  saw  her  obligation,  not  alone  to  the 
man  and  child  who  were  part  of  her,  but  out  and 
beyond  these  to  the  diminishing  circles  of  existences 
that  had  never  touched  hers.  Her  love  that  had  met 
so  generous  a  response,  full  measure,  pressed  down 
and  running  over,  must  be  paid  out  without  the  stip 
ulation  of  recompense.  Her  vision  widened,  dimly 
descried  horizons  limitless  as  the  prairies,  saw  faint 
ly  how  this  unasked  giving  would  transform  a  gray 
and  narrow  world  as  the  desert's  sunsets  had 
done. 

So  gradually  the  struggling  soul  came  into  being 
and  possessed  the  fragile  tissue  that  had  once  been 
a  girl  and  was  now  a  woman. 

494 


The  Promised  Land 

They  left  the  river  on  a  morning  in  September, 
the  sacks  of  dust  making  the  trunk  heavy.  The  old 
wagon  was  ready,  the  mess  chest  strapped  to  the 
back,  Julia  in  her  place.  Bella  and  the  children  were 
to  follow  as  soon  as  the  rains  began,  so  the  parting 
was  not  sad.  The  valley  steeped  in  crystal  shadow, 
the  hills  dark  against  the  flush  of  dawn,  held  Su 
san's  glance  for  a  lingering  minute  as  she  thought 
of  the  days  in  the  tent  under  the  pine.  She  looked 
at  her  husband  and  met  his  eyes  in  which  she  saw 
the  same  memory.  Then  the  child,  rosy  with  life, 
leaped  in  her  arms,  bending  to  snatch  with  dimpled 
hands  at  its  playmates,  chuckling  baby  sounds  as 
they  pressed  close  to  give  him  their  kisses. 

Daddy  John,  mounting  to  his  seat,  cried: 

"  There's  the  sun  coming  up  to  wish  us  God 
speed." 

She  turned  and  saw  it  rising  huge  and  red  over 
the  hill's  shoulder,  and  held  up  her  son  to  see.  The 
great  ball  caught  his  eyes  and  he  stared  in  tranced 
delight.  Then  he  leaped  against  the  restraint  of  her 
arm,  kicking  on  her  breast  with  his  heels,  stretching 
a  grasping  hand  toward  the  crimson  ball,  a  bright 
and  shining  toy  to  play  with. 

Its  light  fell  red  on  the  three  faces — the  child's 
waiting  for  life  to  mold  its  unformed  softness,  the 
woman's  stamped  with  the  gravity  of  deep  experi 
ence,  the  man's  stern  with  concentrated  purpose. 
They  watched  in  silence  till  the  baby  gave  a  cry,  a 
thin,  sweet  sound  of  wondering  joy  that  called  them 
back  to  it.  Again  they  looked  at  one  another,  but 

495 


The  Emigrant  Trail 

this  time  their  eyes  held  no  memories.  The  thoughts 
of  both  reached  forward  to  the  coming  years,  and 
they  saw  themselves  shaping  from  this  offspring  of 
their  lawless  passion  what  should  be  a  man,  a  molder 
of  the  new  Empire,  a  builder  of  the  Promised  Land. 


FINIS 


496 


AN  INITIAL  FINE  OF  25  CENTS 


LD  21-95w-7,'37 


938163 


THE  UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA  LIBRARY 


